


Mark to the Future

by Alexandra926



Series: Mark to the Future [1]
Category: Back to the Future (Movies), The Martian (2015), The Martian - All Media Types, The Martian - Andy Weir
Genre: 1980s BBS culture, F/M, Gen, Snark, Teenaged Mark Watney, bad language!, let's play Spot The Reference!, puns & wordplay, so many Rover jokes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2016-08-16
Packaged: 2018-06-07 09:44:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 36,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6798823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alexandra926/pseuds/Alexandra926
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>***Now complete***Get in the Delorean, they said.  </p><p>It’ll be fun, they said.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

I hate it when I’m late.  

 

But once again, shit happens, and shit always seems to pick me, to happen to.  So this morning I find myself hauling ass for school, because my barely-functional phone has barney-mugged itself once again and failed to wake me up at the agreed upon time.  

 

I’m so tired of dealing with broken-down shit.  

 

Also, I’m tired, in general, because Doc called me in the middle of the night to talk my ear off about a breakthrough he’s made; it would have been much more interesting if he’d actually told me something specific about it.  But no, that would have spoiled the big reveal.  So it just made it hard for me to get back to sleep.  This weekend is the annual science fair, and I’ve been putting the final touches on my project, which is currently occupying a corner of Doc’s workshop.  

 

He’s a frustrating guy to work with, Doc, but at the moment he’s my only real option.  I live in a small town, and there’s not many actual scientists that have chosen to call Hill Valley home.  And if I tried to add up the ones that would also hire an under-age high-schooler, and let them have some lab space, well, I can count them on one hand.  Well, one finger.  I’ll let you guess which one.   Doc lets me run errands and do some minor stuff in his lab; he likes the idea of giving a kid a helping hand in life, I guess.  He’s a good guy.  But between the strange assignments, the midnight phone calls, and paychecks that would make a fast-food worker cry; well, let’s just say that I’m hoping to put all this behind me, one day very soon.  

 

But over the last year and a half that we’ve been working together, I guess you’d say we’ve sort of become friends.  About as friendly as two people with a double-wide generation gap between them can be, anyway.  We do have science in common, at least.  He’s written me an awesome letter of recommendation - okay, well…  actually, Mindy Park wrote it, but he signed it. Close enough.  Anyway, anything that will help me get accepted to a good school is a Very Good Thing™ at this point.  I really need to get out of this town, and going away to college seems like a good first step.  The further away, the better, as far as I’m concerned.  Mindy and I pretty much see eye-to-eye on that.  

 

Which is good, because Mindy’s my best friend at Hill Valley High School.  But the truth is that I’ve also been nursing a crush on her for the longest time now.  It’s probably unhealthy; at this point, I’ve spent so long imagining how great it would be if she were actually my girlfriend, that it’s bound to come as a crushing blow to my ego when I ask her on a date and she recoils in horror.  I have no idea  _ what  _ she’d say, honestly.  

 

Why?  Because I’ve never asked.  I guess I’m afraid of rejection.  But, in the meantime, until I finally work up my courage and tell her how I feel, she’s still a great friend.  She’s a quiet girl, and maybe kind of hard to get to know, but she’s funny and smart, and beautiful, and I think she’ll be very successful someday.  She’s the astronomy geek to my botany nerd, and since we’ve gotten to know each other, those lines have blurred quite a bit, actually.  

 

I was never much interested in astronomy, but listening to a pretty girl talk about it all the time, with her blue eyes all lit up, well…  it didn’t take too long for me to make myself at home there with her, laying on our backs outside in her backyard in the grass, looking through her telescope at whatever interesting object the night sky had to offer.  At first, I was kind of faking, because I just wanted to spend more time with her.  But she’s shown me satellites and planets, stars and a lunar eclipse, over the last year.  And once or twice, the International Space Station has zoomed by, overhead.  Just a bright little blur from down here, but Mindy would be able to tell you about every last module of it.  And everyone that’s ever been there.  I guess her enthusiasm has rubbed off on me.  

 

I don’t think I’d go so far as to say that Mindy has gotten into botany or horticulture, and I wouldn’t want to bore her by talking about it, anyway.  But one day last spring, she and I were walking home from school, and she stopped for a minute to admire some flowers in some guy’s yard.  Said she’d never seen any that color before.  

 

Well, what else could a plant nerd do for the girl he loves?  I snipped off a cutting of it and rooted it and grafted it for her.  It’s out behind my house right now, as a matter of fact.  Not in the ground.  In a pot.  Because I’m going to give it to her.  

 

Someday.  

 

Right now, though, I’m late for school.  As to exactly  _ how  _ late, I couldn’t say.  Dead phone and all.  But it can’t be a good sign that there’s nobody in the hall, when I quietly make my way through the west entrance and head for my first-period classroom.  Hopefully the teacher hasn’t gone so far as to lock the door once she’s called roll; because I really don’t need--

 

“Detention, Mr. Watney.”

 

Motherfucker.  He was right behind me.  The principal of this school is the world’s biggest prick.  And I’m his favorite target.  I swear, he’s probably staked out this class for the pure joy of fucking me over.  I don’t answer him, as he’s writing out my pass to the out-building where I’ll be spending the next hour in detention.  Again.  

 

He’s staring at me; clearly he’s just dying for me to say something.  But like my mom’s told me, if you can’t say anything nice, well;  yea, I have nothing to say to this guy.  And frankly, it seems to be getting his goat this morning that he can’t get a rise out of me, so I just smirk at him and hold out my hand for the detention slip.  

 

“You’re really not going places, are you, Mr. Watney?  This is your sixth detention this term, isn’t it?  One more and you’re going to lose credit for the semester, isn’t that right?  What a shame  _ that  _ would be.”  

 

Asshole.  I can see from the expression on his face, exactly where he’s going with this.  Because naturally, if you can’t get under a guy’s skin by threat, the obvious next step is to resort to insult.  

 

“I’ll bet your parents would be so disappointed.  Wouldn’t they?  I mean, after they made such a failure of their  _ own  _ lives, surely it would be disappointing to see their only child go down the same path?”  

 

I take the detention slip from his hand without comment and start walking.  Does he turn on his heel and start following me, the fucking creep?  Of course he does.  Bastard.  Keeps right up with his banter, too.   

 

“It  _ will  _ be, I mean.”  He paused for a moment.  I kept on walking.  “Such a disappointment.”  

 

“I’m not going to disappoint them,” I burst out angrily, in spite of myself.   

 

“You’re not going  _ anywhere _ , Watney.  Except to detention.”  He grinned at me; such an unpleasant man.  But the next thing he said, made me want to put my fist through his face.  

 

“Like father, like son.”  

 


	2. Chapter 2

It’s been a couple of days since my last run-in with the principal from hell, but his words stayed with me, as words tend to do, when people criticize me.  It’s like a negative feedback loop, and I can’t seem to break free of it.  It’s left me in a pissy mood, and I’m thinking about all the things I wish I had said to that asshole, as I lug my stuff to the auditorium to get it set up for the science fair.  

 

Just for starters, I am  _ nothing  _ like my dad.  The guy is a classic example of someone that just got beaten down by life.  No ambitions.  Maybe he had some once, who knows?  But these days he’s complacent enough to punch his timecard and cling to his precarious bottom rung of middle-class mediocrity.  

 

Like father, like son, my fuckin’ ass.  He never stands up for himself.  And I don’t think he’s ever had an original idea in his entire life.  He’s lived his whole life in the same little house that we live in now, and if he ever had any grand plans to get the hell out of this small town, I’ve certainly never heard about them.  Nope.  He never graduated high school, he got a crappy tech support job, and he married my mom.  Who, as far as I can tell, just felt sorry for him.   That’s pretty much it.  

 

Hell,  _ I  _ feel sorry for the guy.  He’s nearly fifty, for Christ’s sake.  And what does he have to look forward to?  Not fucking much.  His boss is a bitch on wheels.  He hasn’t gotten a raise in, literally, years now.  But stuff keeps getting more and more expensive just the same.  So it boils down to everyone in the family having to pull their own weight.  College will be pretty much out of the question, unless I find a way to pay for it myself.  Jobs are pretty hard to come by in this town, so I consider myself lucky to have found something even remotely science-related, at my age, however sketchy it might be.  But simply put, I’m going to need scholarship money.  

 

Speaking of science, this tropism project is a lot heavier than I had thought.  I’ve been working on it for the last few months; basically, it’s a framed structure that I built, to show as many different kinds of growth responses as possible.  There’s LED lights for phototropism, a water tank for hydrotropism, and a lattice structure to show thigmotropism.  That last part is what, hopefully, will set this project apart from anything similar that the judges might have seen already.  

 

Doc was nice enough to devote a small corner of his workshop to my little experiment, and he even helped a little bit as an advisor.  But this project is all my own work, and I can’t help being a little bit proud of it, as I finish setting up the lattices.   

  
  


I'm nearly finished labeling a good example of each stage, when Mindy shows up.  Frankly, at this point I could use a little moral support.  And well, when it comes along in a package that looks like  _ that _ , all the better.  She looks so damned cute today, too; she's swapped her usual glasses for contacts, but that doesn't stop her from occasionally reaching up absently to adjust them on her nose, anyway.  I have to remind myself three times that she's just my friend, just my friend, just my friend, before I forget myself and lean over and kiss her; it's just that adorable.  

 

Focus, Mark.  I'm finally satisfied with the tendrils, curling delicately around the different lattices, showing the importance of touch as a growth response.  One tendril has wrapped itself in figure-eights, another has formed a perfectly coiled circle to anchor itself to the lattice.  Each of them had a different stimuli to produce a different result.  Each of them is labeled.  Everything’s done.  

 

“What do you think?  Is it ready for prime time?”  I grinned at Mindy.  

 

She studies the whole setup with a critical eye, and smiles up at me.  

 

“This is amazing, Mark!  And you know it!”  

 

I shrug.  “I just hope it’ll do.”  

 

“We need to get some pictures of this!”  Mindy motions for me to go stand next to the finished display, as she gets her phone out.  It’s not a bad idea, really - I’m surprised that it never occurred to me to take some pictures of the whole setup, to include in my packet for the admissions committee.  

 

And then I caught my foot on the leg of the table.  

 

Shit.  The whole thing gives way, and my project is quickly sliding off, at a dangerous tilt.  

 

I try to grab for it, but I’m too late.  It’s already off the edge.  It seems like time has slowed down as I see it crash to the floor; water and soil spilling out.  The table itself is not far behind.  

 

The last thing I see is the lattice breaking free from the frame, as every last tendril snaps under the impact.  

 

For a moment, I’m shocked.  Disbelief.  And then the anger gets hold of me. 

 

”Fuck it!” I yell, as I grab the frame, with its contents spewing everywhere.  I stalked over to the corner trash can and pitched it in, loudly, leaving a trail of mud and water and ruined plants in my wake.  I could see Mindy, standing there frozen, eyes wide.  Guess she's never seen me lose my temper before.  

 

“Fuck this,” I muttered, turning away.  “Fuck all of it.”  

 

I give up.  Seriously, what the fuck?  Why does this shit always happen to me?  

 

I don't even know.  I don't know anything except that I've got to get out of here right now.  People are staring.  I’m out of control; throwing a goddamn temper tantrum like this.  

 

Three months of work.  And I didn't even take pictures of the thing before it got trashed.  What kind of an idiot doesn’t even save a record of his work?  

 

Me, that’s who.  God, what a waste.  

 

And then, I really walked right into it.  I didn’t even see him standing there until my shoulder had connected with his.  Hard.  

 

“Language, Watney,” he sneered at me.  

 

“Go fuck yourself,” I mouthed, barely putting any air behind it.  But he’d heard me, of course.  

 

I don’t know what happens to people who tell the principal to go fuck themselves, but I’m probably due to find out pretty soon.  It’ll have to wait, though, because right now, I’ve had enough.  I shoulder past him, through the double doors and outside.  


	3. Chapter 3

I hear someone calling my name.  

 

“Mark?”  

 

It’s Mindy.  Looking for me, apparently.  She’s pretty persistent, if she’s come this far.  But I’m really not in the mood for company right now.  

 

“Are you out here, Mark?”  She lets out a relieved sigh.  

 

She sees me now, I guess.  I came out back, when I got home a couple hours ago.  Nobody was home, so I just kept on walking, right out the back door and past our property, and into the scraggly wooded area beyond.  There’s an old fallen tree out here that I’ve got my back up against.  I’ve just been sitting here thinking.  Listening to the cicadas.  Watching the sun start to set in the west.  

 

I don’t feel like talking at the moment, but I don’t want to be rude, so I hold up an arm in greeting, and manage a half-smile for her, before looking away.  

 

“Are you okay?  I’ve been worried about you.”  

 

I nod.  But I’m not okay.  Not really.  

 

She can read between the lines.  

 

“Do you want me to go?  I just…”  She trailed off, uncertainly.  This was new territory for our friendship.  I don’t want her to see me like this, all moody and depressive.  And yet, I really don’t want her to go.  Basically, I’m acting like a total douche.  Yay. 

 

I shrug, and pat the ground next to me.  She can decide for herself, I guess.  

 

She wavered for a moment, and then came and sat.  She picked up a fallen leaf and studied it, like there’d be a pop quiz on it tomorrow.  We sat there in silence for a long time.  By the time she spoke again, the dusk had mostly faded into darkness.  

 

“I don’t blame you for being upset,” she said, finally.  “I’d have been pissed, too.”  She patted my hand, then.  I felt like I’d just been shocked with 10,000 volts, and I tried not to jump.  

 

“What’d you say to him, anyway?  You should have  _ seen  _ the look on his face,” she chuckled.  “He looked like he was going to stroke out, then and there!”  

 

That brought a smile to my face, even though I knew it was going to be trouble, later.  

 

“Telling that guy to go fuck himself was one of the most enjoyable moments of my wretched life,” I laughed, with my voice a little scratchy from disuse.  

 

“You did not!”  She squeezed my hand, then.  I felt like  _ I  _ was going to stroke out.  “Good for you.  About time someone did.”  She left her hand on top of mine.  God, if I’d known that all I had to do, was mortally embarrass myself in front of the entire school and lose three months of work that could have gone a long way to really improve my future, in one fell swoop, to finally get her attention…  

 

I couldn’t help it, I leaned into her just a tiny bit.  Even though it’s probably just pity that brought her here, even though I’m probably just imagining it.  She’s not  _ really  _ into me.  Not like  _ that _ .  She’s just here checking up on her friend, making sure I’m not going to hang myself from the highest branch or something.  

 

Our shoulders bumped together, and I thought I felt her exhale, softly.  Like she was comfortable, this way.  Huh.  Maybe I’m  _ not  _ imagining this.  Not entirely.  And I’m definitely not imagining that she’s now leaned in a little my way, as well.  

 

Or maybe she’s cold.  She’s probably just cold. 

 

“Thanks for coming to look for me,” I finally said.  “I guess maybe I didn’t want to be alone right now, after all.”  God, I sound like a dork.  But a chance like this doesn’t roll around every day of the week.  Maybe I should just go for it.  Tell her how I feel.  I’m already so battered from earlier events, that I don’t think it’ll even hurt that much if she shuts me down, which she probably will.  

 

“Hey, that’s what friends are for.”  She turned to me and I could see her smile, faintly in the low light.  I pulled my hand from underneath hers, and reached around to squeeze her shoulder, in response.  

 

And then I left it there.  My arm settled around her shoulders.  A few seconds passed, and I swear, my heart stopped beating entirely.  

 

And then, predictably, she stiffened up and turned to face me, so quickly that I felt air whoosh across my face.  

 

“Mark?” 

 

“Oh my God, I’m sorry,” I apologized quietly, whipping my arm away as fast as humanly possible.  “I didn’t think.  I forgot.”  

 

She chuckled, then.  Well, at least she didn’t slap me, I guess.  

 

“You forgot to  _ think _ ?”  Her shoulder bumped into mine again, and I could feel the laughter shaking through her.  “What  _ was  _ that, exactly?”   She was still facing me; her voice sounded like a mixture of amusement and choked-up emotion.  

 

“I’m sorry,” I blurted out, “I forgot, just for a second, that we’re only friends.  I just wish…”  I trailed off, sounding pathetic, I’m sure, but I soldiered on, anyway, “I wish we could be more.  But I understand.  I mean, if you don’t feel that way.  I won’t ever bring it up again.  I’m sorry.”  

 

“Would you  _ please  _ quit apologizing?”  

 

Uh...  Okay.   Mouth staying shut.  If I can ever manage to get my foot out of it, anyway.  

 

I sat there, shell-shocked, as she grabbed my hand and placed it  _ back  _ on her shoulder.  Then, she leaned back into me, putting her head on my shoulder, gently.  

 

“I’ve only been waiting to hear you say that for a year and a half, you asshole,” she murmured.  “Now, will you please say it again, and leave out the ‘I’m sorry’ part this time?”  

 

I do as I’m told.  My voice isn’t much above a whisper, but I manage to say the words.  Barely.  

 

“Now, was that so hard?” she chuckles into my shoulder.

 

“Actually.  It kind of  _ was _ .”  I grin.  “Yes.”  

  
  


I can hear the garage door closing, as Mindy and I are walking back towards the house, a while later.  Awesome.  Maybe I can borrow the car to drive Mindy home.  It’s gotten pretty late, and while it’s been a warmer day than average, it’s still December and it’s getting kind of cold.  

 

My parents are talking, in the living room, and I’m pretty sure that I’m the topic of conversation, when I hear the word “suspension” issue from my mom.  Not good.  They must have called her at work. 

 

Loosening my deathgrip on Mindy’s hand, because I’m sure as hell not ready for my parents to see  _ that _ (I can still barely believe the events of an hour ago) we head towards the front door.  Never mind asking them to borrow the car, I’ll be lucky if they don’t completely embarrass me in front of Mindy.  

 

“Mark!  Where do you think you’re going?”  Too late.  Mom’s voice raises about an octave.  She’s been drinking.  

 

My dad’s just sitting there like a dolt; his usual modus operandi. 

 

“Just going to walk Mindy home,” I say casually.  “I’ll be back in an hour.”  Or three.  However long it takes for her to calm down, or pass out, or whatever.  I so do not need this, today. 

 

My mom eyes Mindy, suspiciously.  She’s always given me shit about having a girl for a best friend, and now she’s obviously reading into things.  I hate it when she does that.  Especially when she’s right.  Fuck my life.  

 

“I think Mindy can find her own way back,” she slurs her words.  “Hmm?”  She glances at Mindy again.  And then back at me.  

 

“Um.  Sure.  I’ll just--”  Mindy starts for the door, looking back at me helplessly.  As she turns to leave, she surreptitiously points to her phone, and makes eye-contact with me, raising her eyebrows slightly.  

 

I nod okay to her, and whisper, “Sorry,” and she’s gone.  Great.  I was kind of counting on having a chance to iron out the details of this little breakthrough.  What if she changes her mind?  

 

“I got a phone call today when I was at work, Mark,” Mom starts, in her ‘drunk’ voice that hits that sweet spot between gravel and screech owl.  

 

“I know.  I’m sorry.”  I try to look suitably chastened.  

 

“Mark!” she sighs, in frustration, “You told the principal to go fuck himself!  After you threw your science project across the room!”

 

“Hey now, that was an accident.  It slid off the table.  One of the legs was broken.”  

 

My dad is silently laughing his ass off, on the sofa.  He gives me a thumbs up, behind Mom’s back.  He’s not going to get involved here, of course.  I narrow my eyes at him.  Coward.  

 

“Well, whatever happened, you got suspended, Mark,” she rasped.  

 

“It’s winter break now anyway, who cares?”  That was probably not my best possible response, in retrospect.  

 

“Your father and I care!  And they called me at  _ work _ , Mark.  To tell me that my almost eighteen year old son is having temper tantrums at school!”  She sits down, then.  

 

Things could go either way, at this point.  She’ll feel better after bitching me out, and calm the fuck down, or else she’ll double-down and go for the kill.  

 

She’s taking a deep breath.  To relax?  Or to refuel?  

 

Yep.  Fuck me, sideways.  It’s kill time.  

 

“And then, I find that you’ve brought that little ‘friend’ of yours over here.  Mark, I don’t like that girl.  She acts like a little tramp, always sending you text messages at all hours.  I don’t think she was raised right.  Girls shouldn’t act like that; no girls acted like that when  _ I  _ was a teenager.”  

 

I can’t help rolling my eyes a little bit at her.   Seriously?  Yea, I’m not even going to engage in that.  I am officially checked out of this conversation.  

 

Good night.  


	4. Chapter 4

Jesus Christ.  Why is my phone ringing?  It’s the middle of the night.  

 

Without opening my eyes all the way, I lean over and grab my phone, and promptly disconnect it from the slow trickle-charge, which is the only way to charge it at all anymore.  After charging for hours, it’s managed to get all the way to 10%.  Yay.  Once the charger port goes, and I have no doubt that it will, someday very soon, I’m going to be SOL for days, if not weeks.  

 

I was hoping for Mindy, but instead, of course, I get Doc.  

 

“Yea?”  I answer, groggily.  

 

“Are you  _ asleep _ ?!”  Doc sounds kind of like he’s in manic and panic mode, so I reply,

 

“No, did you need something?”  Of course I’m asleep.  It’s two in the morning.  Normal people are not awake at two in the morning, and if they are, they’re not calling their lab assistants up to pester them.  What the  _ fuck _ , man.  

 

“Didn’t you read my email?”  Doc demanded.  

 

“No…  I’m sorry, I never saw it.  What’s it say?”  Odds are very good that he never actually  _ sent  _ said email.  He’s absent-minded like that.  

 

“I need you out here at Twin Pines Mall, Mark.  To film my experiment!”  

 

“Uh, okay.  Sure, Doc.  I’ll head over there in a minute.”  

 

“Good.  Thanks, Mark.”  

 

“Oh, hey.  Doc?”

 

“What?”  

 

“Do you have something there to film it with?  My phone is fucked.”  

 

Doc sighs.  

 

“Stop by the lab on your way here, then.  Pick up my old iPhone.  We can use that.”

 

“Sure thing, Doc.  See you in fifteen.”  The line was already dead.  Doc’s not the best with social skills.  

  
  


I finally arrive at Twin Pines, on foot.  I didn’t dare borrow the car.  It looks like Doc’s brought out his flatbed trailer, which is unusual.  And speaking of cars.  

 

Huh.  Is that an old Delorean?  

 

“Mark!”  Doc greets me enthusiastically.  “Put this on!”  He thrusts a yellow radiation suit at me.  Wait.  A radiation suit?  What the fucking fuck?  But I’ve been a lab assistant long enough that I know not to ask questions.  I throw it on, over my clothes.  

 

“Should I start filming?”  I ask.  It’s a rhetorical question, since I already  _ did  _ start filming.  

 

“You look like a reject from a Devo song!”  Doc laughs, as he finishes putting on his own suit.  “I guess I do, too!”  He chuckles, at his little joke that I did not get.  He does that a lot.  

 

“Uh, Doc?”  I gesture to the car.  “Is that a real Delorean?”  The DMC logo is plainly visible in front, check; a stainless-steel body, check; gull-wing doors, check; underneath all that equipment is, indeed, a genuine Delorean-12 model.  I’ve never seen one in person before.  

 

“I wanted to use a Bricklin!”  Doc nodded towards the car, “But I couldn’t find one that was still in one piece!  This one gets better gas mileage, anyway.”  He’s clearly said something hilarious (to him) again, as he laughs.  Weirdo. 

 

“What is all this,” I gestured to the wicked-looking modifications along the quarter-panels of the Delorean, “is this a…”  I start backing away from it, without thinking.  “Is that…”  Oh my fucking god.  

 

“Yes!  It’s an RTG!  No moving parts!  Just the thing for generating long-term power!  Are you filming this?”  

 

“Doc.  Are you telling me,” I can barely choke out the words, “you put a big box of  _ plutonium _ ,” I paused for a moment, “into a  _ Delorean _ ?”  

 

Well, I’m not sure it’s science, but it’s definitely got a certain flair.  You have to give him credit for that, at least.  

 

“It’s perfectly safe!  Perfectly safe!”  

 

I feel like an idiot for pointing this out, but I can’t help myself, “Doc.  Plutonium?  That’s illegal.”  

 

Doc shrugs.  “Maybe it’s illegal right here, right now.  But in other places?  Other times?”  He trails off.  

 

He’s a goddamn felony, looking for a place to happen, that’s what.  

“Okay.”  I’m speechless for a minute, at the sheer lunacy of what he’s done, here, but whatever.  Moving right along.  “So, um, yeah.  You’ve got an RTG powering the um…  that’s not the main engine, right?  What  _ is  _ that?  It’s leading to--what’s that tank?”  

 

“Excellent question!  That’s a special lead-lined receptacle for the hydrazine!”  He’s all cheery, with a ‘no fucks given’ expression on his face, as he reveals the presence of fucking, amazingly dangerous, unstable, corrosive, fucking  _ rocket fuel,  _ oh my God.  He’s a maniac.  And this is so cool, I could die right now.  And honestly, it seems like a very real possibility.    

 

“Hydrazine?  You’re fucking around with  _ hydrazine _ ?  How fast is this thing going to  _ go _ , anyway?  You planning on blasting that thing off to Mars?”  

 

“Oh, Mark!”  He’s laughing again, doubled-over.  “It’s not to make it go  _ fast _ !  It’s to generate the necessary power for  _ this _ !”  He opens up one of the gull-wing doors and gestures to a Y-shaped device along the struts of the roll-cage that I can’t even begin to imagine the purpose of.  

 

“Wait.  Wait.  Doc.  Where did you get this stuff?”  

 

Doc motions for me to pause the recording, so I do.  

 

“I got the formula for hydrazine by Googling for it!  And the RTG is a Soviet one, that the CNSA got a hold of!  They’ll never miss it, they have a hundred of them!”  Doc looks at me, obviously seeking approval.  I tap the iPhone to get it recording again.  

 

“That’s amazing, Doc.”  He grins widely at the praise.  “So, are we doing a full demonstration of the experiment tonight, or what?  Talk me through it!”  This is the craziest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.  And I’ve had access to YouTube since I could walk, practically.  

 

“You bet we are!  Let’s get started.  Let me get Rover.”  Doc whistles for Rover, who trots over to us trustingly, from his spot in the truck’s cab.  

 

“Your dog?  What’s Rover going to do?”  

 

Doc is securing Rover in the driver’s seat of the DeLorean.  I could point out to him that a human seat belt is useless on a dog’s anatomy, but it’s not like the dog’s going anywhere, right?  Dogs can’t drive.  

 

And, maybe I spoke too soon.  Doc whips out a radio-control system from the space behind the seat.  He pats Rover on the head, and closes the gull-wing door.  Rover looks at us through the uselessly tiny partition of the gull window, as the car slams into reverse.  How on earth could you ever go to a drive-thru with that thing?  

 

Rover better hope he has good insurance, because Doc clearly thinks we’re filming The Fast & The Furious tonight, here.  He’s burnout revving the engine, which just for the record, is clearly not stock.  For one thing, whatever it is has a supercharger.  For another, that engine sounds way too smooth to be anything other than a V8, and Delorean never made one.  So, yeah.  Heavily modified.  Right on, Doc.  

 

I’m keeping the camera focused on the car, on the far side of the parking lot from us.  The rear tires are smoking, sending up plumes, as I’m watching the gauges on Doc’s radio controller.  When it hits 60, he pops it and lets it come roaring straight at us.  

 

“Wait til you see what happens when it hits 88!”  Doc chortled in excitement, as the speeding car closed the distance, very rapidly.  I keep the camera trained right on it.  I can see poor Rover in the front seat, it’s getting so close.  Doc seems content to just stand right there in its path.  

 

Have fun with that, man.  

 

But I’m not getting run over tonight, thanks, and when the car is a few seconds away, I start quickly backing off to my right.  

  
Then, there’s three flashes of white light, and what sounds like a sonic boom, as the Delorean disappears, leaving only two trails of fire.  


	5. Chapter 5

“Holy shit,” I mutter, as Doc is practically jumping up and down with happiness.  

 

“It worked!  It  _ worked _ !  Ha!”

 

I stare at Doc, with the camera still recording.  

 

“But you killed Rover!”  You psycho!  Not to mention destroying a Delorean.  

 

“No!  Rover’s fine!  He’s like a little tank!  He’s perfectly fine!”  Doc grinned at me.  

 

“Where the fuck is he, then!?”  

 

Doc is standing over the still-burning fire trails, leading off towards the mall.  He checks his watch, and points to it, indicating that I should be filming.  Seconds pass, as I wait for him to say something.  He looks like a kid on Christmas morning.  

 

“Just wait about another 15 seconds, Mark, and you’ll see!”  

 

I’m glancing around, just to be sure, but there’s nothing besides the fire trails, and the flat-bed trailer behind us.  

 

Sure enough, he’s right.  Three booms and one flash of light later, there’s an ear-splitting squeal, as the Delorean’s brakes lock and the newly-reappeared car swerves out into a drifting-shell and finally to a screeching halt.  I can’t see through the windows to make out if Rover’s okay, because the entire car is quickly fogging over.  Actually, it’s not fog, it’s frost.  The stainless steel panels are coated over in ice, even.  Doc kills the engine, and accumulated pressure streams from the rear exhaust system in a plume.   

 

I watch as Doc approaches the car, cautiously.   I’m still filming what I sure hope doesn’t turn out to be a liquified dog in the front seat, but Doc kicks the gull-wing door up, and indeed, Rover’s fine.  

 

Shocked is really just not the right word for how I’m feeling right now.  I don’t even know what questions to ask.  I can’t even get my head around the fact that the car, and Rover, were apparently rendered, what, invisible?  For, how long was that, anyway?  

 

“One minute!”  Doc announces, happily.  He’s holding up a chronometer from around Rover’s neck, identical to the one on his wrist.  They’re now one minute apart.  

 

Wait, what?  

 

Why would…  what is going on, here?  The facts are right in front of me, but logic and reason can’t make any sense of out of them.  

“Rover!  The first time-traveler!”  He unbuckles the dog from the seatbelt; Rover flops down, rolls over a time or two, and then shakes himself off; then nonchalantly makes his way back to the tractor’s cab.  He doesn’t seem too impressed with his newfound notoriety.  

 

“Time traveler?”  I ask, weakly.  “Are you saying that…”  

 

“Yes!  The Delorean went forward one minute in time!  Rover skipped over that minute!  He’s a time traveler!”

 

I’m just standing here shaking my head.  I know I’m dreaming.  I just need to try and remember all the details so that I can tell Mindy about it, tomorrow.   Because this is just…  this is just batshit fucking crazy.  

 

Doc’s gathering some stuff from the cab, now, and he motions that I can stop filming now.  A good lab assistant always helps with the heavy lifting, of course, so I slide the iPhone into the pocket of my radiation suit, and go to help Doc.  

 

We’re moving some stuff over to the Delorean, and Doc pauses a moment to show me how the inputs on the time circuits work.  

 

“See?  This readout is where you  _ are _ .  This one’s where you’re  _ going _ .  And this one is where you  _ were _ .”  

 

I nod.  Makes sense, more or less.  I watch as he inputs 01-01-1986.  

 

“Is that where you’re going next, Doc?  What’s so special about 1986?”  

 

“Oh, just a little unfulfilled wish of mine,” Doc chortles gleefully.  “They say you never get a second chance with things like that, but I’m going to see--”

 

“Holy shit!”  I yell, noticing what it is, exactly, that I’m carrying.  

 

This thing is heavy as hell, and Doc has helpfully labeled it with a Sharpie.  

 

N 2 H 4

 

I almost drop the fucking thing, as the realization sets in.  It’s fuel.  Hydrazine.  It’s volatile stuff.  I wonder how he gets it from this receptacle to the one onboard the Delorean, whether it’s pure hydrazine, or if it’s been watered down.  So, you know, it doesn’t explode from someone frowning at it.  

 

I’m just on the verge of asking Doc, when we both hear the squeal of tires on pavement at the far end of the mall’s parking lot.  

 

“Mark,” Doc says, pretty calmly, under the circumstances, “Get in the cab with Rover, right now.  Don’t let them see you.  These guys are 14K.  Chinese mafia.  I’m going to try and talk with them.”  

 

I’m no fucking cowboy, screw that!  I get in the cab with Rover.  And hide like a little girl.  

 

A car pulls up, and some Chinese guys get out.  And I guess it’s a shame that Doc speaks Mandarin and I don’t, because it’s just like there’s this weird…  scene…  right in the middle of the action where the characters are suddenly speaking another language, for no apparent reason.  Makes me really wish someone had subtitled this shit.  I guess if this were a movie, this would be the part where they shamelessly pander, to secure a Chinese release in the theaters.  

 

I’m not sure what Doc did to these guys, but from the sound of things, they’re pissed.  

 

Maybe a deal gone bad?  The RTG?  That’s my only idea.  

But it’s only a guess.  And maybe I’ll never know, now.  Because suddenly, I hear gunfire.  

 

A machine gun.  And then, a thump.  Doc’s body hitting the pavement?

 

Oh my god.  

  
  


I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting here, frozen in fear and shock, crouched in the cabin of the tractor.  But eventually time starts to have some meaning again, and I find myself sitting here petting Rover to keep him quiet.  And I’m not even a dog person.  I like cats.  

 

But the car doors slam, and the engine roars and they drive off.  And maybe Doc’s not really dead, who knows?  

 

I open the cab door a crack.  Doc’s definitely dead.  

 

There’s blood spreading underneath him, and at least a dozen bullet holes across his chest.  I’m no surgeon, but I know that there’s no going back from that much blood loss.  His face is grey.  He’s gone.  

 

My friend.  My boss.  He was a good guy.  Crazy, no doubt.  But fundamentally, a good guy.  

 

This is so fucked up.  I need to call 911.  

 

I think I’m in shock.  My hands are shaking so that when I stand up and try to get to Doc’s iPhone, I can barely find my pocket, let alone the phone.  

 

**No Service.**

 

And another screen message pops up.  

 

**Memory Full.**

 

Was I recording that whole time?  

 

The No Service shouldn’t come as any surprise; why did I think there would be service on this old thing, he hasn’t used it in ages.  Rover whines at me, as I’m trying to decide what to do.  

 

Walk back to town and find somewhere to make a call?  

 

Look for Doc’s current phone, which will probably involve patting down his dead, blood-covered body?  

 

I’m not liking any of these options.  Not at all.  

 

Then my eyes fall on the Delorean.  The phone could be in there!  And if it’s not, I can drive it to the nearest place to make the call.  Then what?  I’ll need to hide it.  Right?  Somewhere those bastards will never find it.  

 

A quick search of the front seat doesn’t turn up a phone, but that’s okay, I guess.  I don’t really want to be here when they come to take him away, anyway. 

 

A stroke of luck!  The keys are in the ignition.  I slide into the driver’s seat and start it up.  It’s an automatic, thank god, but what is that  _ third  _ pedal for?  It’s way over on the left, and an experimental tap does not help to enlighten matters.  Whatever.  Doesn’t matter.  I’m perfectly capable of driving with two pedals.  

 

I’ve never driven anything like  _ this _ , however.  The first timid little tap of the gas pedal nearly has me peeling out, and I’ve already seen how fast it can go from zero to 88.  (Very goddamn fast, for the record.)  I’m just pulling out of the mall parking lot, trying to decide which way to go, when I see the flashing lights in the rear view.  

 

Fuck.  

 

Me.  

 

The following things occur to me:  

 

  1. I am driving a vehicle that is most likely, knowing Doc, stolen.
  2. At the very least, not street legal. 
  3. There is a plutonium-powered RTG in the trunk. 
  4. I’m leaving a murder scene.  



 

Have I mentioned lately, how utterly fucked I am?  


	6. Chapter 6

This is not good.  

 

I wonder if there’s any chance, any possibility at all, that I could just stop right now, talk to the police, explain everything, and walk away a free man.  

 

Nope.  I just don’t see it.  At the very least, I’m in possession of some seriously dangerous and highly-illegal shit.  And then there’s Doc’s murder.  

 

I’m going to have to try to outrun him, aren’t I?  

 

Well, I guess I picked the right car for the job.  I hang a right and head for the freeway.  It’ll probably take a few minutes for the cop to summon his homies.  They won’t be expecting me to make a quick break, especially not if I drive slowly at first.   And, unless I miss my guess, knowing Doc’s flair for extreme engineering, this little Franken-car has most likely been equipped with that SRT-Hellcat’s engine that I’d seen him tinkering with a few times.  It’ll smoke this guy’s…  what is that thing?  A Ford something-or-other?  

 

Yea, he’s toast.  

 

He’s following at a polite distance, flashing his lights.  No siren yet, even.  

 

I wonder what he makes of the Delorean, with the weird-looking equipment and tubing…  I don’t even know if it has a license plate visible.  As for me, I'm just going to pretend this is just for fun, a little Dukes of Hazard reenactment, not my actual life and liberty on the line.

 

Just about time to make my break.  The Hellcat can do 125 MPH in 10 seconds, and even accounting for the added equipment and stuff, a Delorean should weigh a hell of a lot less than a Challenger.   I can totally lose them.  If I don’t crash and kill myself in the process.  

 

I can’t believe I’m actually doing this, but here we go.  I’m about to hang a hard left and break for the freeway.  It’s this or jailhouse orange.  

 

5…

 

4…

 

3…

 

2…

 

1…

 

Houston, we are go for launch!  From my rolling start, I  _ stomp  _ the pedal into the board, and the car takes off like a fucking rocket.  

 

Holy.  Fucking.  Shit.  I’m pushed back in my seat so hard I can’t even breathe.  The steering is tight, but I manage to hold it steady as the engine roars and the wheel jerks back and forth.  

 

Still accelerating.  

 

The flashing lights are far behind me now, as I glance in the rearview.  I totally took him by surprise.  Awesome!  

 

Then, the blinding flash and three sonic booms totally take  _ me  _ by surprise.  

  
  
  
  


**January 1, 1986 - Midnight**

 

Oh my god, what have I done?  

 

There’s fireworks visible in the rearview mirror, as I ease my foot off of the accelerator, and the enormity of what’s happened starts to sink in.  

 

I slow the car down to something approaching a normal speed, and look for an exit.  I need to gather my thoughts.  In the last ten minutes, I’ve been witness to the murder of my friend, been involved in my first police chase, and now…  and now, I’m looking at the possibility that I’ve actually travelled back in time, thirty years.  

 

**Get in the Delorean, they said.**

 

**It’ll be fun, they said.**

 

I need a plan.  

 

  1. I could just get back on the highway, accelerate back to 88, and bam!  I’m back in 2016.  I like this plan already.  Awesome plan.  Plan A rocks.    
  

    1. Only problem?  There’s that orange light on the heads-up display informing me that the hydrazine tank is empty.  No time travel for me.    
  

      1. This sucks.  
      2. I have no idea where to get more.
      3. I don’t even know what kind of hydrazine I need.  
  

    2. There was a perfectly good container of it at Twin Pines Mall, six fucking inches away from the car.  Why did I not think to bring it with me?    
  

      1. Because I’m stupid.  
  

  2. I’m going to need some help.  Now, I’m not exactly an expert on these matters.  But it seems to me that it would be, potentially, a very bad idea, to randomly announce that I’m a time-traveler from 2016.  Plan B sucks.  Nobody should know.  
  

    1. Except for possibly Doc.  



 

Okay, it’s settled.  I’ll hide the Delorean here in the woods, and I’ll walk back to town and find 1986 Doc.  He’ll know what to do.  

  
  


It’s a long walk back to town.  It probably seems longer than it is.  Because just between you and me, I’m feeling a little bit worse for the wear.  I’ve only gotten a few hours of sleep since before the science fair, which seems like it was forever ago, now.  I tried for a nap in the front seat of the Delorean.  No point in showing up in town in the middle of the night; but it was kind of cramped in there.  I think I was just feeling too unsettled to sleep much, anyway.  

 

I haven’t eaten anything since…  I don’t even know.   It’s definitely been too long, though, because I’m starting to feel like I might faint.  But I don’t have much choice.  It's not like I'm going to die of starvation, I guess.  I can make it.

 

It’s chilly out here on the highway, and the fireworks are long over, now.  It’s a long, boring walk, and I’ve got a couple of hours at least, before anyone would be awake.  It occurs to me that I have no idea where to find Doc.  His current lab was only built in the last few years.  And while I’m fairly sure that he already lived here in 1986, I have no idea where.  I’ll have to ask around.

 

The horrible scene of Doc, murdered and bled out, keeps flashing through my mind, as hard as I try not to think about it.  Have they notified his family by now?  Does he even  _ have  _ any family?   Any friends?  Surely Mindy, at least, would go to his funeral.  

 

Strangely enough, I found Doc’s telescope in the back of the Delorean, when I was going through Doc’s stuff earlier.  Sorry, Doc, if you didn’t want me going through your stuff, you shouldn’t have gone and gotten yourself killed.  I guess he loaded it in there with the other things, after Rover made his one small step for canine-kind.  

 

It reminded me of Mindy, of course.  Wonder what she’s thinking, right now?  And my parents.   Do they all think I was kidnapped by aliens?  And who will take Doc’s dog?   Someone needs to take good care of that Rover.  

 

All in all, this has been a really rough day.  And it's not even daylight yet.

 

* * *

 

 

Finally, I roll into town, right around dawn.  I've got a stitch in my side from the long hike.  Feels like I've been skewered or something.  A corner gas station is closed, but there's a Coke machine around the side.  I'm thirsty from my long walk, and a Coke sounds like an awesome idea.  

 

The resulting can is a little funny-looking, maybe, with a ring-tab on top.  Like it thinks it's some kind of fancy craft beer.  I narrowly avoid slicing my hand open with it, and take a sip.  

 

“Gah!”  I almost spit it out, in surprise.  

 

What the fuck is wrong with that Coke?!  It tastes all flat and watery and smells like asphalt.  

 

I check the can, again.  New Coke.  

 

Oh, for fuck's sake.  Why would they…  Never mind.  I'm not _that_ thirsty.  

 

Note to self:  for the remainder of my (hopefully very brief) visit to 1986, I'm switching to Pepsi.  

 


	7. Chapter 7

“I need a phone number.  And an address,” I ask the girl behind the counter.  

Someday, this place is going to be a Starbucks, but on this afternoon, in 1986, it’s a Take It Home video rental place.  

I can barely believe my eyes.  People are paying good money to rent VHS movies.  

The clerk looks me up and down, shaking her head slightly.  There’s a sign on the counter that says: 

**Be Kind.  Rewind.**

**Rewind Fee - $1.00**

Classy.  

“There’s a pay-phone,” the clerk suggested listlessly, gesturing across the street.  “We don’t have a public phone.”  

I nod my thanks and turn to leave.  

And then I stand rooted to the spot, because I’ve just spotted someone familiar.  

He’s my age, carrying a black backpack, as well as a couple of rented movies, which he sets onto the counter.  

He glances over at me.  

As soon as we make eye-contact, I know for sure that it’s my dad.  He’s dressed funny, and he has all his hair, and he’s wearing loafers with no socks, dear god.  But it’s my dad.  

“Do I know you?” he asks.  Obviously he’s wondering why I’m staring at him like this.  

“Uh.”  This is a bad idea; I should leave.  “We went to different schools together,”  I blurt.  

I turn around to leave, for real this time, when the weird gets even weirder.  

Another familiar face walks into the shop.  It’s my dad’s boss!   Tiffany was apparently rocking that resting bitch face even back in her high school days, but it’s undeniably her.  Manipulative shrew of a woman.  

“You just can’t seem to get away from her, can you?”  I mutter.  Dad hears me, and his head jerks up, giving me a confused look.  

For the uninitiated, Tiffany is a truly terrible excuse for a human being.  She’s been making my dad’s life miserable at work for years.  She’s taken credit for his ideas, and made him her scapegoat for any number of bad ideas that  _ she’s _ had.  Office politics aren’t really my jam, but over the years she’s been pretty much directly responsible for my dad getting passed over for promotion, at least twice, and then there was that time Dad let her borrow the car.  

Let’s just say that our insurance rates have still not recovered.  

Anyway, it’s kind of disturbing to watch as Tiff corners my dad and is…  what?  Threatening him?  Flirting with him?  Some sick combination thereof?  

“Sure, Tiff.  I’ll have it finished tomorrow, so you can turn it on Friday.  Is that okay?”  

“Ray.  Are you stupid?”  She gives him a withering look; obviously it’s a rhetorical question.  “I need it  _ tonight _ .  Christmas break is already over, why haven’t you finished it before now?”  

“Sure, no problem, Tiff.  I’m sorry.  I’ll just go get finished with it right now.”  

Without so much as a goodbye or a thank you, she’s swept right past the both of us, and she’s on her merry way.  

I can’t help myself.  I just have to say something.  

“Why do you let her boss you around like that?”  I ask.  Ray looks at me, in surprise.  “You know, no good is ever going to come of letting some power-tripped bitch treat you that way.”  

His eyes are wide, and he takes a few moments to respond, opening and closing his mouth a couple of times like a flopping fish. 

“Oh, you know, Tiffany, she’s okay,” he hedges, looking at his shoes.  “She’s not a, uh…  a powered trip, um.  You know.”  

He’s defending her.  What a chump.  

I give him an incredulous look.  

“Seriously?”  Is he totally in denial?  “Da- I mean, Ray!  You’ve got to grow a fucking spine, man!”

“ _ Do _ I know you?  How d’you know my name?”  He looks at me suspiciously.  

Whoops.

“Uh.”  I try to think of something plausible, but I’m coming up blank.  

“Oh.  You heard her say it?”  he reasoned. 

I nod, gratefully.  

“Yep.  Anyway, nice meeting you, Ray.”  

He jerks his head at me again, curtly, and heads out the door, swinging his backpack over his shoulder, carefully.  

I wonder where he’s headed.  Home would be in the opposite direction; that’s not where he’s going.   I hang back a little, and watch him, out of sheer curiosity.  

* * *

 

I’m following Ray, and Ray’s acting damned weird.  What the hell is he up to?  

A couple of blocks from Main, he darts into someone’s side yard.  I’m watching, fascinated, standing a few houses down, near some shrubs and a mailbox that looks familiar somehow.  

Are you fucking kidding me?  

Well, well, well.  Mr. Passive-Aggressive.  

This is so very Watney of him, I can’t even believe my eyes, as I watch my future father remove a dozen hard-boiled eggs from his backpack and start tossing them, one by one, onto the roof of Tiffany’s house.  They rolled down and dropped into the rain gutters, which were choked with dead leaves. 

A total dick move; that’s going to smell terrible for weeks, if not  _ months _ .  And she’ll never know where it’s coming from.  

I completely approve.  

Possibly, me doubled-over laughing catches his attention as he’s about to toss the last egg, and he tosses the carton down and makes a break for it, beating a hasty retreat back towards town.  

I can’t help it; I shoot a thumbs up to his retreating back, still laughing my ass off, as I scoop up the carton.  

What the hell.  No point in wasting.  

I toss the last egg, and just as it leaves my hand, from the corner of my eye, I see someone, across the street.  A girl.  

Oops.  

The girl, a pretty blonde, is giggling at me.  Clearly not a fan of Tiffany’s, either.  

She’s emptying the mailbox that I was just standing next to, a minute ago, and she calls to me, “Don’t worry, I won’t say anything.”  She laughs.  

Wait.  I know that laugh.  

I cross the street; take a closer look at her.  It’s my mom, giving me a sort of approving, admiring smile.  

Of course!  This was my grandparent’s house, wasn’t it?  Tiffany and my mom, Laura, were neighbors, growing up.  

Funny, I never realized how pretty my mom used to be.  As teenagers, there’s no question that my mom throws Tiffany into the shade.  Right at this moment she looks pretty fucking horrified, for some reason, though.   

There’s a squeaky, whining noise that joins up with the ringing in my ears.  

When I get hit from behind by the car.  


	8. Chapter 8

I must have had a fever, gotten sent home from school sick, maybe.  I’ve got a pounding headache, and there's a cool washcloth on my forehead, and Grandma’s in the kitchen.  Cooking something.  I can hear the clink of dishes, the scrape of a chair on the kitchen linoleum.  

 

Oh, I think, sleepily.  Not a fever,  then.  A dream.  Because my grandmother died, four years ago.  Still miss her.  My parents both worked, odd hours sometimes, when I was little.  If I got sick, it was off to my grandparent's house, where Grandma Sharp would cluck over me like a mother hen, while everyone was at work.  

 

I'd lay here on this sofa,  just like this, and she'd put this soft, crocheted afghan she had, over me, just like this one, here.  And did I mention, my grandmother was a great cook?  She'd always make my favorite stuff; ranger cookies and homemade lemonade.  And oh man…  her chicken and dumplings.  

 

I must have gone to sleep hungry, because I can actually  _ feel  _ the aroma of it, in my nose.  It's a nice dream.  I don't want to wake up.  

 

But I'm already awake.  At least I think I am.  

 

“Young man?”  

 

I open my eyes, but I have a hard time focusing on anything.  Everything’s blurry, and doubled. 

 

“I think you must have hit your head on the car, son.”  He turned towards the kitchen, then.  “He lives!”  he called, for my grandmother’s benefit.  He smirked at me.  It’s my Grandpa.  

 

“S’got a loose belt,” I mumbled, still feeling really out-of-it, remembering the squealing noise from earlier.  “Sir.”  I add, because old habits die hard, and my grandfather was always kind of a taciturn guy that way.  Old school.  Before he started fading out, anyway.  The events of the last day start rushing back to me, then.  It’s hard to sort out fact and fiction, and my brain’s still kind of fuzzy.  None of this is making sense.  

 

“What was that?  A loose belt?”  Grandpa chuckled.  “You a mechanical engineer or something, son?” he joked.  “What’s your name?” 

 

I start to sit up.  This is just too fucking weird.  “Mark.”  

 

“Good to meet you.  I’m Jack Sharp, that’s Sally,”  he gestured to my grandmother, behind us in the kitchen, “and you must already know our daughter, Laura.  You two go to school together?”

 

“What time’sit?”  I’m groggy and I still can’t quite focus my eyes properly, and I feel weird.  Maybe I have a concussion.  I pull myself up to a sitting position.  I’m glad to see my backpack is on the end of the sofa.  

 

Grandpa gestures to the TV, where Dan Rather was delivering the nightly news, as though that should explain everything.  

 

“You’ve been asleep for most of the afternoon,”  he said.  It’s nearly dark outside.  

 

“Do you need to call your mom?”  Grandma picks up the kitchen cordless, a giant clunky thing, and hands it to me.  

 

Uh.  Yea.  About that.  “I don’t think she’s home from work, yet,” I ventured.  I handed it back to her and attempted to stand up.  

 

Whoa.  The room’s spinning, and I feel lightheaded.  Really spaced out.  

 

“Hey there, cowboy.”  Grandpa catches me by the elbow.  “Careful.  You took a hard spill out there, kid.” 

 

“What happened?”  It’s all kind of foggy, and this has been a really weird day.  

 

“I didn’t see you, there by the mailbox,” Grandpa chuckled, “and my car’s got a blind spot that a Mack truck could hide in.  I backed right into you.  Sorry about that.”  

 

“S’okay,” I rub the back of my head.  There’s a tender area, about half the size of my hand.  Must be where I hit the pavement.  “Pretty sure I’ll live.”  I stand there for a minute, not certain if the headache and dizziness are due to me taking a blow to the head, or if it’s low blood sugar.  Maybe it’s both.  

 

“When did you last eat?”  Grandma chimes in.  She loved to feed people, I swear.  It’s total déjà-vu time over here.  

 

“I, uh…  I’m not sure.”  

 

“Why don’t you stay for dinner, Mark?” she prods, and I allow myself to be led towards the table, sitting down in the same chair where I sat a hundred times as a kid.  It’s been a long time since I saw my grandmother like this.  I was about ten when she got sick the first time.  Fourteen at her funeral.  In some ways, I think our family has never really recovered from losing her.  Mom’s drinking got worse; we stopped celebrating holidays as a family; Grandpa’s eyes lost their twinkle, and he’d started his slow slide into dementia not long after.  

 

This woman was the glue that had held everything together.  How did I never realize that, before?  

 

Suddenly I’m feeling so emotional, I swear to God, I’m going to cry or something, so I try to make them smile instead.  

 

“Well.  I  _ am  _ a teenaged boy.  I’ve heard rumors that we eat a lot; you sure you have enough?  Thank you.”  I gave her my best charming smile, and she smiled right back, chuckling, as she passed me a plate.  

 

There’s steam wafting up from the chicken and dumplings, as I have a first small bite.  It tastes amazing.  I’m so hungry that I’d probably be thrilled with a plain old baked potato, at this point, but this is just…  I can’t even describe it properly, except to say that it was delicious and I’d be asking for another helping.  

 

“This is great.  Just like my grandmother used to make,” I compliment her, as I fork up for  another bite. “Thank you.”

 

“Such nice manners, my goodness!”  Then she turned to call up the stairs, “Laura!  Supper!” 

 

Funny enough, I kind of remember telling the principal to go have sex with himself a few days ago, and I don’t know that very many people would agree with her on that point, these days, but whatever.  I can fake it for one dinner.  

 

My parents work unpredictable hours, and my mom was never much of a cook to begin with, so I’m rusty at this whole family dinner thing.  But when Laura comes bounding down the stairs, and she and Grandma come to sit down, Grandpa pulls out a chair for her, and I do the same thing, pulling out a chair for Laura, without even thinking twice about it.  

 

Grandpa is an old-school guy, and he nods in approval, at that. 

  
Laura is looking at me with obvious approval, as well.  Maybe a little  _ too  _ much approval, actually.   Yikes.     



	9. Chapter 9

Well, I finally managed to rescue myself from my grandparent’s place.  I’ve got Doc’s old address on a slip of paper (how quaint) in my pocket, and I’ve got another long walk to take.  But hey, long-ass trips are my business.  

 

Turns out, Doc used to live in a pretty nice place.  A couple of acres, looks like, out past the railroad tracks that lead towards a bridge.  In 1986, it’s on the very outskirts of town.  

 

Knocking on the front door, I wish once more that I had some idea on how to handle this.  It’s going to be weird.  

  
  


Newsflash:  It was weird.  

 

“I don’t want a newspaper subscription!”  he’d yelled at me.  “Or a vacuum cleaner!”  

 

“Not selling anything, Doc.  I need your help.  It’s a science problem.”

 

He stared at me for a few seconds, but I’ve said the magic words and he was intrigued, in spite of himself.  His eyes trained on my backpack.  

 

“You need help with your homework, kid?  Does it look like I’m running a study hall here!”  

 

“Well, here’s the situation.  My name’s Mark. There was an accident with one of your experiments.”  

 

He looked completely nonplussed by that; tell me something I don’t know, he was clearly thinking.  Considering that he’s thirty years younger than I’m used to seeing him, he didn’t actually look all that different.  It’s good to see him alive at all, really.  It helps me to forget, just a little, the way he looked the  _ last  _ time I saw him.  

 

“Which one, kid?” he hedged, glancing around, warily.  

 

“It’s something you haven’t built yet.”

 

Now he’s looking really confused.  And just out-and-out annoyed.  He frowned at me.  

 

“Okay, kid.  Beat it.  Scram.  Fun’s over.”  He started to close the door on me.  

 

“No!  Wait!  I really do need your help.  Please.  My life depends on it.”

 

So does yours, I thought.  

 

He was staring at me, waiting for me to continue.  

 

“I’m stranded, Doc.  I’m a long way from home.”  I dig through my backpack then, and pull out his old iPhone.  There’s a picture of Rover on the locked screen.  “See that?  That’s a fingerprint scanner, right there.  It’s  _ yours _ , in the future.  You loaned it to me, to film an experiment you were doing.”  

 

He’s still staring at me.  

 

“It was a time-travel experiment.”  I think I’ve eased him in, as gently as I possibly can.  He’s kind of slack-jawed, eyes wide, not even blinking.  

 

“But there was an accident,” I continue. His head was shaking now, slowly, as he tried to make sense of what I was saying.  He shakily reached one hand towards the phone, and touched the fingerprint scanner.  It unlocked.  ‘ **December 17, 2016’** was clearly visible on the display.  

 

I thought he was turning away from me to look over his shoulder, but I realized too late that he was in shock.  He slumped to the ground, eyes rolled back.  

  
  


Well, it's not too terribly often that growing up with an alcoholic parent scores me anything in the plus column.  But it's totally second nature for me to drag him in and get him set up on the sofa, and I'm practically on autopilot as I get him into the recovery position, just in case.  

 

Doc’s dog comes to check on her master after a while.  Friendly little thing.  Same breed as Rover.  Some kind of shaggy little sheepdog.  A quick inspection of her collar reveals her name to be Cerberus. 

 

Eye roll.  

 

Misogynist, much, Doc?  

 

Doc seems to be sleeping, at this point, rather than just unconscious, and it's pretty late anyway.  I should do the same.  

 

After I've been duly sniffed and pass muster with Cerberus, I settle down in the chair across from Doc and attempt to pass out.  

 

But I can't.  All this stuff keeps replaying in my head.  My grandparents.  Mindy.  My parents.  Doc’s murder.  I can prevent that, right?  If I tell him never to do business with 14K he might not ever build the time machine, though.  

 

That would probably be for the best.  It's caused nothing but trouble, so far.  Only, there's one thing bothering me about that.  Why  _ did  _ he build it in the first place?   And why did he pick 1986 as his first target?  He's not stupid.  He should know that to interact with anyone 30 years ago, especially himself, could seriously fuck up future events.  

 

I have a hard time reconciling the fact that he was apparently willing to risk it, anyway, for whatever the “unfulfilled wish” was that he'd mentioned at Twin Pines.  It must have been important, if it had been bothering him for thirty years. 

 

If I could just…  nudge… those two events.  Just a little bit.  Keep Doc from getting murdered, and maybe figure out what that wish of his was.  If it's something feasible, and we get it taken care of now, then maybe, just maybe, he'll never build it.  And of course, we'll have to get some rocket fuel, somehow.  Without screwing up the course of history too much.  And then everything can go back to the way it's supposed to be.  

 

I pat Cerberus, and then close my eyes and try to sleep. 

 

An actual, true-blue alarm clock with a motherfucking bell on top is ringing its shrill little head off, loud enough to wake the dead.  

 

And Doc, for that matter.  I give him a friendly wave and a smirk from the chair before he has a chance to freak the hell out on me again.  He silences the shrieking alarm and sets it gently down, next to the iPhone, which he picks up.  Gingerly, as though it might bite him, he does the fingerprint unlock again.  

 

**Low Battery 15%,** it informs us helpfully.  **Memory Full.**

 

“I thought I must have dreamed all this,” he started to say, “but this little device.  Great Scott.  It has to be true, doesn't it.”

 

“Yep,”  I confirm,  “in 2016, you invent a time machine.”  I sit up, suddenly.   “Hey, I recorded the whole thing!  You can see for yourself!”  He looks at the iPhone dubiously.  “And then we're going to need to go get the time machine from the woods where I left it,” I add, as I'm navigating the touch screen menus. Doc watches, saucer-eyed.  “We should bring it back here.  Do you still have that flat-bed?”

 

“That’s incredible!  I was just thinking about buying one of those!”  He shook his head, ruefully. 

 

“Oh well.  I suppose I can just drive it over here.  A Delorean shouldn't stand out  _ too  _ much in 1986, huh?”  

 

“I built a time machine into a  _ car _ ?!  That's  _ brilliant _ !  Great idea, future counterpart!”  He pats his own shoulder in congratulations.  “That way I can move it anywhere I need to go, in style!”  

 

He watches, as I delete a few files, to free up some memory, and turn on Airplane Mode to save the remaining battery, until I get a chance to recharge it.  Not like we’re going to be finding many WiFi hotspots around here.  

 

His eyes go even wider.  

 

“That thing can  _ fly _ ?”  He sits back in his chair, stunned.  “Why do the people of the future need their computers to be able to fly around?”  He furrows his brow, blinking, and then floats the first hypothesis that comes to him.  “Is it a problem with global warming?  Of course!  People get stuck in their homes and cars a lot because of rising floodwaters?  You send one of these out, like a carrier pigeon?”  His voice had climbed about an octave, as he stared at the iPhone in my hand.  

 

“What?  No.  No, it's just  _ called  _ Airplane Mode.  It doesn't fly.”  Good grief.  He looks confused. “Okay, here we go.”  

 

“Wait!” Doc stood up, suddenly.   “The alarm!  My lab assistant will be on his way over here soon.  He can't be allowed to see any of this.  It would be dangerous.”  He mused quietly, to himself.  “Very, very dangerous.  I need to call him, before he leaves.”  

 

I eavesdrop shamelessly, as Doc tells the guy not to come to work today.  Or tomorrow, for that matter.

 

Huh. I guess it sounds like _ I _ have a 1986 counterpart,  too.  


	10. Chapter 10

**January 6th, 1986**

 

You’re probably wondering just how this happened.  Doc and I are in the principal’s office this fine morning, enrolling me, for the second time (or is this the first time?) at Hill Valley High School.  

 

Fuck.  

My.  

Life.  

 

I should be enjoying my Winter Break right now, damn it.  

 

In 2016, this totally wouldn’t fly.  No proof of ID, no birth certificate, no proof that Doc is my legal guardian, or that he has custody of me.  Doc floats his loony cover story about how he’s my uncle, my parents are missionaries, etc., etc., and the principal buys it, and signs me up.  Moron. 

 

I keep trying to remind myself that he doesn’t know me (yet) and there’s really no reason that he should be eyeing me with that hateful expression, already, but I don’t think I’m imagining it.  

 

Dude pretty much hated my guts on sight the first time around, too.  

 

Yeah.  So it’s off to the school secretary with me, to pick up my schedule.  

 

Right.  I should backtrack a little bit.  So Doc and I retrieved the Delorean late Thursday night.  Drove it back to Doc’s place and stashed it in his workshop out back.  Doc was a little bit (okay, a lot) dismayed to discover that his future self had made things so difficult.  

 

He was completely unfamiliar with hydrazine and its production and forms, and worse, there’s not really any easy and fast way for him to research it, either.  I don’t know enough about it to help, really, because while the chemical formula for hydrazine is pretty damn simple ( N 2 H 4 ) the production of it is not.  And it’s not like this information does not exist, it’s just that it’s not readily available.  Regular people have no need to know it, it’s not common knowledge, there’s no Google, and therefore, we’re kind of screwed.  

 

The only reason that I know anything about it, at all, is because of Mindy and her NASA fascination.  NASA uses hydrazine as rocket fuel.  

 

So getting a hold of that formula is not going to be as easy as it would be, in 2016.  Not impossible, but it might take us a while.

 

And then, we found an even bigger problem.  

 

Scary problem.  

 

One minute, we’re joking around about whether I’m old enough to drive, considering that I haven’t been born yet, and the next minute, I was staring in horror at my driver’s license from 2016.  

 

It’s blurry.  

 

I’ve seen my license a hundred times since I got it, nearly two years ago.  I  _ know  _ what it ought to look like.  

 

The photograph of me is all blurred and indistinct, now.  Even my name and address are a little fuzzy.  I dropped it like it was on fire, because it just didn’t make any fucking sense.  

 

It was Doc that figured out what had happened.  

 

Apparently, I have inadvertently put my future birth into jeopardy.  Because I must have interrupted my parent’s meet-cute the other day.  My mom never got to witness my dad’s vandalous, scandalous ways, and he never got backed into by Grandpa’s car.  

 

I’ve heard the story at least a dozen times, when I was growing up.  Not the part about Dad egging Tiffany’s house.  But the fact that they’d met when Grandpa tagged him with the car.   It always sort of sounded to me like it was a pity thing.  

 

How could I have been so stupid?  

 

Don’t answer that.  

 

So anyway, the only thing that's left to do now?  

 

I'm going to have to play Cupid.  

 

Simply put, I'm going to totally suck at this.  

 

Me.  A nearly eighteen-year-old virgin that has never been on a date.  The guy who took two years to finally spill his guts and make the first move (such as it was) on his best friend.  I’m going to have to make it my business to fix up my parents, or else I’m never going to get born.  And I’m strongly, strongly in favor of me getting born someday.  

 

So here we are.  Hill Valley High School looks a little less grim and grimy these days, and I'm looking a little different these days, myself, after a trip to Twin Pines Mall.  My 2016 clothes do kind of stand out, a little bit.  

 

But oh dear God, eighties clothes.  Just shoot me right now.  I'm wearing jeans that are so tapered past the knees that I could barely fit my foot through them, and the rolled cuffs actually chafe my ankles.  Like leg irons.

 

I had my choice between high-top sneakers that look like they escaped from the music video for Beat It, boat shoes, or loafers.  They're hideous, but I went with the sneakers.  T-shirts haven't changed much if at all in thirty years, but the style is to wear them  _ underneath  _ a button-down monstrosity with wide, tapered sleeves and a huge collar.  Yay.  

 

So now that I look like a boy band reject, I'm right back in my least favorite place on planet Earth, and once again trying to avoid detention, as I play time-traveling pimp.  Hooray! It's time to try to get my parents to hook up.  

 

I feel so gross.  

  
  


I finally spot Dad--Ray!  I have to think of him as Ray, so that I don’t accidentally slip--at lunchtime, but not because he’s heading towards the lunchroom.  He’s headed away from it, actually.  I follow him to a classroom, and before I have even the slightest idea of what he’s doing or why he’s there, he’s opened the door and he’s gone.  

 

What the hell, Ray.  Finally, my curiosity gets the better of me and I crack open the door to take a peek, and what I see should probably not come as a total shock, but it totally does.  

 

It’s the Chess Club.  You have got to be fucking kidding me.  

 

I guess it makes sense that they meet during lunch, because these guys are probably afraid of getting their collective asses kicked in the general population.  

 

Anyway, I’ve still got to talk with Ray.  Might as well join the nerd herd.  

 

I can't believe I'm really doing this.  I might be a bit of a nerd in my own era, but I do it on my own terms.  This sort of organized, sponsored,  _ self _ - _ aware _ nerdery is just plain beneath my dignity.  

 

Whatever.  I can't help but overhear part of a conversation about Dungeons & Dragons.  Maybe these  _ are _ my peeps, after all.  Hmm.  Ray is at a different table, however, setting up one side of a chessboard.  The teacher (chess coach?) notices a new face, and greets me.  

 

He was setting up the other side of the board to play a game with Ray, but after I introduce myself, he offers me his seat.  Ray gives me a suspicious look; clearly he remembers me from the events of a few days ago.  

 

Probably thinks I'm following him.  

 

Ray puts both his hands behind his back, and then brings them back out, both hands clenched shut.  

 

Uh.  What?  

 

“Pick one,” he rolls his eyes at me.  

 

Okay…  

 

I point to the left.  

 

He drops a white pawn in front of me.  

 

Oh.  Gotcha.  I go first.  

 

I haven't played chess with my dad in years.  He tried to teach me when I was a kid, sure, but once we’d got past the basic rules and he’d started talking about King's Indian something, and Sicilian something else, my eyes had kind of glazed over and I guess my lack of aptitude for it, plus my lack of interest had hurt his feelings.  He'd been disappointed in me.  Never brought the chessboard out again.  I remember that now.  

 

It's a given that he's going to kick my ass today, but he still pauses for a long time to think over his moves.  He's a methodical player, writing down the notation between moves, and flipping the time clock over, with a well-practiced snap.  It gives me some time to look around and get my bearings and listen to the interesting D&D chatter from the other table.  There's a chess tournament in progress, posted on the wall.  

 

Ray Watney has won nearly all of his matches, so far.  Huh.  Who knew?   

 

I'm a little embarrassed by how quickly he takes down my defense and has me checkmated just two moves later.  

 

“Good game,” he mutters, standing up.  

 

“Wait.  Ray?”  

 

He pauses, eyebrow raised.  

 

“Who taught you to play chess like that?”  

 

“I play online.  To practice.”  

 

Wait.  What?   


	11. Chapter 11

“Hey, I’m back,” I call to Doc, who is present but unseen.  His ancient Packard is parked in the carport.  The first thing I do is change out of the awful pegged jeans and into something more comfortable.  Because in my day?  Pegging is something I’d really rather not have going on anywhere near my pants.  

 

So!  Then, I set out to find Doc.  He must be out back in the workshop, which I suppose doubles for his laboratory these days.  It’s a rectangular-shaped pre-fab building, roughly the size of a three-car garage.  Garage is a fitting description for it, at this moment, since the Delorean has taken up residence.  

 

Doc is working on some sort of chemistry; there’s a strong smell of ammonia in the air.  I’m guessing that he’s trying to test some of the remnants from the hydrazine receptacle to see what it is, exactly, that powers the reactor.  

 

A lab table in the back corner has a different experiment set-up.  There’s a laundry list of chemicals; manganese sulfate, sodium iodate, sulfamic acid.  

 

“What’s all this?”  I ask Doc.  

 

“A Briggs Rauscher thing,” he replies, absentmindedly.  “Not mine.”  

 

“Whose is it, then?  Oh, your lab assistant’s?”  

 

Doc nods, without comment.  

 

“Did you find out anything about the fuel?”  

 

“Well,” he sighs, “I guess I have a pretty good idea of where we’re going with this.  But I’m still going to need information on how to get started.  And what exactly the process entails.”  

 

“We need the formula, then.”

 

“How did it go with your parents, today?  Did you talk with them?”  He changes the subject, as he’s starting to clean up.  

 

“I tried to talk to my dad.  He gave me an idea, actually.  Do you have a computer?”

 

* * *

 

“Do you get internet on that thing?   _Is_ there even an internet?”  I asked.  Honestly, I’m not sure when that was invented, but it went back to the sixties, right?  I looked at the computer with a dubious expression.  This computer _looks_ like it’s straight from the sixties.  It’s loud.  The CPU is enormous, and the monitor is tiny, but maybe I’m underestimating it.  

If Ray is online playing chess, then maybe 1986 computers are further along than I might have guessed.  

 

“Internet?  Sure.  Do you know someone that would be able to help?”  

 

I thought for a minute.  A search engine.  That’s what I need.  Does it exist?  I sat down in front of the terminal.  Doc’s desktop was scattered with square, black items - I picked one of them up and studied it.  

 

“Is this a disk?  Ha, it looks just like the Save icon.”   

 

Doc gave me a strange look and nodded.  

 

“Five-and-a-quarter floppy.  Why, what do you use, in the future?  Those new-fangled three-and-a-half ones?”  

 

I frowned at the screen, as the computer booted up.  There was a mouse, yes, but it did nothing when I moved it around, experimentally.  There was only a black screen.  

 

**C:\**

 

I handed my keychain to Doc absentmindedly, tapping the USB drive that dangled from it.  

 

“Um, doesn’t this thing have…  Windows or something?”  

 

“Of course,” Doc replied, raising an eyebrow.  

 

“It just says ‘C’”

 

Doc rolled his eyes.  “You have to type ‘windows’,”  he said, turning his attention back to the USB drive.  

 

Windows 1.0 slowly dragged across the screen, in black-and-white.  Oh, good lord.  You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.  What the hell is this?  This is the most useless thing I’ve ever seen in my life.  

 

“Where is the internet?”  

 

“Ah, right there.  You write your e-mail there in this box, see?  Then you use this acoustic coupler modem over here to send it.”  

 

What the fuck?  

 

“Okay, yea, never mind.  This is ridiculous.  How do you look things up?”  

 

“Oh!”  Doc nodded, comprehension dawning.  “You want to access a library database!  Okay, well, that’s a little more difficult, but see, you can format your query right here, then we can send it to the university library and they’ll kick back an answer in a few days.”

 

“Jesus Christ.”   

 

I’m in the Stone Age.  

 

* * *

 

 

Once I have established that no, there is not any internet, at least, not in the format I’m familiar with, I turn off the computer and decide to go for a walk, to collect my thoughts.  

 

If I knew the right person to ask, I could send an email.  Of course, very few people actually use email in 1986.  For the most part, it’s only people who work for the government, or a university.  Any of them that randomly received a request for information on creating rocket fuel would most likely be tagging me as what?  A terrorist?  A troublemaker?  Either way, it might get people too interested.  Still, it might be a possibility.  

 

And then, strangely enough, I’ve got Ray, telling me he’s online playing chess, like it’s no big thing.  The phone book yielded no listings for Internet Service Providers; I think I’m still a few years too early for that, anyway, but it was worth a shot.  

 

I’m no internet historian, but I don’t think regular average Joes had access to it until the nineties.  

 

I don’t remember Dad ever mentioning that he was any sort of internet trailblazer.  But then, apparently there’s a lot I never knew about the guy.  

 

I guess there’s a lot he never knew about me, either.  

 

Without even realizing where I was heading, I notice that I’ve already walked most of the way to the house that I’m going to call home, someday.  Same little shithole now as it is then.  

 

Actually, no.  It’s kind of hard for me to believe, but if anything, it looks _worse_ in 1986.  A lot worse. It’s the same two-story shotgun house, clapboard and stucco; but a shutter is hanging brokenly off the second story window.  The chimney is cracked and tilted, like it might fall over in a strong breeze.  The front porch is sagging on one side, and the carport is looking a little unsteady as well, housing some sort of seventies Chrysler beater.  

 

This is not a happy home.

 

The backyard is a jungle where brambles and scrub and waist-high weeds have completely won the war against the grass.  It occurs to me that I don’t even know who lives here, besides my dad.  He’s never once mentioned having brothers or sisters, so I’ve always assumed he was an only child.  And while I do allegedly have a grandfather Watney kicking it somewhere, I’ve never even met the guy.  I don’t think my dad has much of a relationship with him.  

 

This is fucked up.  

 

I’m sitting on the curb across the street, taking all of this in, when the side door swings open and bangs into the side of the carport.  There’s a woman, dressed in spotless white.  A nurse?  I’ve never seen any pictures of my grandmother Watney; she died before I was born, and my dad’s not one to reminisce about his childhood much.  But I’m pretty sure that’s who it is.  

 

She opens the car door with a creak and attempts to start up the Chrysler.  I can tell that the starter is fucked, it takes ages for the engine to turn over.  

 

The side door opens again.  

 

“Mom!  Wait!”  He’s holding up a bag.  She rolls down the window and takes it.  

 

“Thanks, honey,”

 

“Have good night at work.”  He smiles at her.  She drives off, with the engine knocking like it needs new spark plugs, too.  

 

Ray pauses to check the mailbox, when he notices me.   _You again_?  clearly written across his face.  

 

I cross the street, not really sure what to say to him.  

 

“Hey, Ray?”  

 

“Yeah?”

 

“You know how your mom’s car makes that sound when she’s starting it?  Like it won’t turn over?”  

 

He nods, looking perplexed.  

 

“It’s the solenoid,” I ramble on, sounding like an idiot, “The gear isn’t popping out far enough to engage.  It’s just spinning around and around in the housing.  But if you take a hammer, and gently tap the end of it?”  I motion, banging away on an imaginary starter with my imaginary hammer, “it won’t do that again for a long time.  It’ll just start up like normal.”  

 

“Yeah?”  He looks surprised, and maybe a little impressed.  

 

I nod.  “Yeah.  You’ll still have to replace the solenoid eventually, but you should be able to get another year or two out of it.”  

 

“Cool.  I’ll try that.”  He grins at me.  We’re totally friends now.  Car advice.  Win!  “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name before.”  

 

“Mark.”  

 

“You’re into cars, huh?”  

 

“Well, a little bit, I guess.”  

 

“What do you drive?”  He looks behind me, clearly wondering if I’m such a genius with cars, then where is _my_ sweet ride?  

 

“Ha, no, I don’t have a car, actually.  It’s the Shoeleather Express for me.”

 

He grins.  

 

Totally stole that line from _you_ , Dad.  

 

“Same here.  My mom works nights at the hospital, during the week, though, so I can usually have the car on the weekends.”  

 

“That’s cool,” I nod.  “Hey, um, I was wondering?”

 

“Yeah?”  

 

“What were you talking about, earlier, when you said that you go online?”  

 

“Uh.  It’s like, you use a computer?”  He shrugs.   

 

“How’s that work, exactly?  I’m just curious.”  

 

“I guess I could show you, if you want.”   

 

That probably sounded pretty half-hearted, but for Ray Watney, it’s saying something.  


	12. Chapter 12

Okay, now this is seriously weird.  

 

And that’s coming from someone who’s had a _ really  _ strange week.  

 

I’m standing in my own bedroom.  Only it’s my dad’s bedroom, when he was my age.   

 

Dad’s version of my room runs to the military surplus-chic, with an Army bunk and a battered camo footlocker at the end of the bed.  Shelving made from cinder blocks and boards.  Lots of books.  A few Star Wars models.  Most teenager’s rooms that I’ve seen are a disaster area, including mine, but Ray keeps his as neat as a pin.  

 

“Nice computer,” I comment.  He flips on the screen.  

 

“Thanks.”  

 

There’s not another chair, so I drag the footlocker over to sit on.  He’s still waiting for it to boot up, a five-minute affair of flashing screens and scrolling numbers.  

 

“Where’d you learn about cars?”  He looks at me.  “Your dad teach you?”  

 

“Um, no.”  Definitely not.  “My dad’s no car guy.  My grandfather, though.  He showed me a few things.”  

 

“Like taking a hammer to the ignition?”  Ray chuckles again at that.  “I can’t wait to give  _ that  _ a try.”  

 

“Hey, if it works!”  I grin.  “What about your dad, what’s he do?”  

 

Ray shrugged.  

 

“No idea.  He bailed, when I was a kid.  It’s just me and Mom these days.  Fine with me.  He’s an asshole.”  

 

“That sucks.”

 

“Every couple years he turns up to say he’s sorry, blah blah blah.  Last year he asked me if I wanted a new computer or something.  Guilt gift.  I didn’t think he was serious, but this,” he gestured to the terminal, “showed up a few weeks later, so hooray for asshole Dad.”  

 

This is by far the longest speech I’ve ever heard from Ray.  

 

“Nice.”  

 

“You have a computer at home?”  

 

“Not my own.  My uncle has one, though.  I’m staying with him for awhile.”

 

“What kind?”  

 

“I don’t know.  A slow one?”  

 

He smirked.  

 

“It has Windows.”  

 

He burst into laughter.  

 

“Oh god, Windows.  What a waste of time!  It just slows everything down.  This computer came with it, too.  But I deleted it, first thing.”  

 

“Okay, so I’m new to this.  Walk me through it.”  

 

“Well, so here’s a list of commands.  This is the terminal program.”  

 

Looks like a bunch of gibberish.  

 

**Telix v. 1.12 Command Summary**

**Dialing Directory ALT-D Queue Redial # ALT-Q Run editor ALT-A**

**Send Files ALT-S Receive Files ALT-R Local Echo ALT-E**

**Exit Program ALT-X Run Script ALT-G ScreenShot ALT-I**

**Comm Parameters ALT-P Configure ALT-O DOS-comm ALT-V**

**Macros ALT-P Term Emulation ALT-T Trans/Table ALT-W**

**Capture TOGGLE ALT-L Scroll Back ALT-B Chat Mode ALT-Y**

**DOS functions ALT-F DOS shell ALT-J Stat/TOGGLE ALT-8**

**Hang-up ALT-H Clear screen ALT-C DOORWAY ALT-=**

**Usage Log TOGGLE ALT-U Misc. Functions ALT-M Printer CTR@**

 

**Select function or press Enter**

 

I have to admit, I’m totally lost.  But it does seem more promising than Doc’s setup.  

 

“Okay, so here’s a list of the different BBSes I’m on,” he gestured to a list of maybe a dozen phone numbers, the old-style seven-digit kind, with names like Cafe Corner, and Jester’s Realm.  Some of them are obvious send-ups of old TV shows and movies.  I spot a Gilligan’s Island, and The Unladen Swallow.   

 

“See?  This one here is music-related, the SysOp there is a musician and you can download his stuff and listen to it, if you have a computer that can play it.  And this one, this guy is a pirate.  You can download cracked software on there, games and stuff.”  

 

**“** Huh.  Cool.”  

 

“Each of these places has one phone line, for the most part, so a lot of the time they’re going to be busy.  So I can set up a queue, here, to dial the ones I’d like to visit.  All my chess games are over here on Cafe Corner.”

 

“Any of these have anything like a search engine?”  

 

“Never heard of it.  What’s that?”  

 

“Um, like you could search for information on stuff?  Like, say you wanted help with your chemistry homework, formulas and that kind of thing.”  

 

“A search engine?  That sounds like a pretty good idea,” he chuckled.  “I’ve never heard of anything like that, though.”  

 

“Darn.”  I hope he doesn’t get ambitious and invent Google or something.  

 

“It would take up too much hard drive space.  Actually, come to think of it, there’s a forum for homework help on one of the--”  

 

The computer starts making this god-awful racket, screeching and squealing, with occasional beeps and squawks.  It doesn’t even really seem to have speakers; it seems like it’s issuing straight from the belly of the beast.  Finally, there’s the loud whooshing sound of static, and then silence again.  

 

“Noisy.”  It’s the understatement of the century.  

 

**______________________________________________**

**[_____________________________________________]**

**[________________Cafe Corner_________________]**

**[__Established: 1984____Games, Fora & Files__]**

**[_____SysOps:__Mr. Tea and Mrs. Coffee_______]**

  
  


**~**  
   ~  
 .---.  
 `---'=.  
 |cc |  |  
 |    |='  
 `--'  
Enter Login and Password:

**_______________________________**

 

“Is that, um… is that a coffee mug?”  I can’t help but snicker at the utterly amateur attempt at art.  

 

“Haha, yea,”  Ray grinned, “Those two are not the best at ASCII art.  It’s a husband and wife that run the BBS.  They live in Dalton.  Two towns over.  They usually host a picnic or something every month or so, for everyone to come meet in person.”  Ray’s user name is Qwerty.  Classic.  

 

“Any from Hill Valley?”  

 

This is just about the weirdest damn thing I’ve ever seen, as I watch Ray check his emails and send off chess moves, occasionally consulting a little travel-sized chess set that he has.  

 

“Uh, yea, there’s quite a few BBS guys at our school.  I see them in the Forums sometimes talking about this teacher or that.  People don’t use their real names on here, usually, so unless they were to show up, say, at one of the Cafe Corner get-togethers, it’s not like anyone would know who they are.”  

 

Ray opened an email from someone named DayTripper, and immediately groaned.  

 

“Looks like he wins again.”  I watched as he resigned the game, and Day Tripper was awarded the win.  “I can’t even get a draw with this guy.  He’s like Bobby Fischer or something.”  

 

He pulls up a list of his recent wins and losses, and sure enough, he’s lost the last five matches to this guy.  

 

Overall, though, his standings are not too bad, he ranks near the top of all the Cafe Corner players.  

 

“Does that guy go to our school?”  

 

“Yea, he’s one of the FireWalkers.  I don’t know who he is, though.  I don’t think he’s ever played chess with us at school, though.  I think I’d remember.”  

 

“What’s a FireWalker?”  

 

“They’re a group of hackers.  Bad ones.  They’ll format your drive and stuff.  You don’t mess around with those guys.”  

 

“Format your drive?”  

 

“Delete everything on your computer.”  

 

Oh.  Yea, that sounds bad.  

 

“How would they go about doing that?”  

 

“Hell if I know.  I’m no hacker.  I just hear stories, you know.  People talk about them, at the Cafe get-togethers and other places.  One guy I’ve met said that one of the FireWalkers pulled him into a chat, and told him that he had uploaded a virus to some database of theirs, and before he could even have a chance to apologize, the FireWalker guy used some special code to drop to his DOS and typed ‘format c:’ and it was wham, bam, thank you ma’am.”  Ray chuckled.  “Totally screwed.”  

 

“Oh, geez.  Yea, that’s not cool.”  

 

“Yeah.  He wasn’t happy at all.  A lot of those guys have been banned from Cafe Corner.  The ones that are known members of the FireWalkers.”

 

“But not the chess guy?”  

 

“No, not him.  He just comes online to play his games and leaves.  Doesn’t leave messages or download files or show up to the get-togethers.  Doesn’t cause any trouble.”  Ray grinned.  “But I’ve heard that he’s actually the worst one of all.  He’s done like, serious, hardcore hacking.”  

 

“Serious, hardcore hacking?  On a BBS?  That’s a joke, right?”  

 

Ray laughed.  “That’s what I hear.”  

 

“Does Tiffany ever get on here?”  

 

Ray looks shocked.  

 

“No,” he laughed, “not her style at all.  Tiff’s not so bad, though.  That thing with her house, I was just pissed off with her last week, because,” he trailed off.  “Well, like you said at the video store, she was kind of taking advantage of me, and I get tired of her crap.”  

 

“Don’t blame you, man.  Actually, I know this girl that I bet you’d really like.”  Might as well start getting him used to the idea…  

 

Ray continued on as though he hadn’t heard me.  

 

“Tiff and I used to, well, you know.  She was my girlfriend for a while.  We might get back together sometime, I don’t know.  I hope.”  

 

I need some help picking my jaw up off the floor.  My dad and  _ Tiffany _ ?  

 

Say _ what _ ?!


	13. Chapter 13

**January 10, 1986**

 

“You mind if I borrow some tools?”

 

Doc nodded, absent-mindedly.  He was in the zone, best not to disturb him too much.  

 

I gathered up a torque wrench and a ratchet set and tossed them into my backpack.  I’ve promised to make myself scarce this weekend so that Doc’s poor lab assistant can finally have access to his experiment, after a week of putting him off.  

 

The Delorean is covered over with some sort of canvas and tied off.  Not sure how Doc’s going to explain the ammonia smell, but hey, not my problem.   

 

I’ve  _ got  _ to make some progress with getting Ray and Laura together this weekend, if it kills me.   The idea of arriving home to find that my dad married Tiffany, instead, is plenty enough to keep me motivated. 

 

Ray, I can deal with.  Sort of.  But Laura?  I can’t even so much as make eye-contact with her in the hall without her doing that…   _ thing _ …  that girls do, where they look down, and then back up at you?  Ugh.  So yea, I’ve basically been avoiding the hell out of her.  

 

I’ve also made no progress on figuring out what Doc’s motivation to visit 1986 was.  I really just have no fucking clue at all.  If it’s something personal, like something with a girl, or some sort of social thing that he wished he’d done, I sure as hell can’t figure it what it was.  The only person who calls him is the lab assistant guy.   I mean, he planned it out, he had a suitcase in the back of the Delorean with eighties clothing, even some era-appropriate cash, which has come in handy, by the way.  It wasn’t some spur-of-the-moment decision.  There was something very specific that he wanted to do.  And somehow, I think that whatever it was probably wouldn’t have changed the course of history, or else he wouldn’t have planned to do it.  And then, there's always the very real possibility that whatever it was, should have been addressed on January 1st, when I first got here.  Or was January 1st just a placeholder date, because any date in 1986 would do?  

 

And of course, I can’t ask him too many questions about it, because I can’t get him wondering why I’m asking.  Can I?  It doesn’t seem like a good idea.  Seems like more of a thing I ought to try to resolve, behind-the-scenes, if possible.  I just wish I could figure out what it was.

  
  


* * *

 

“See, that one is all seized up,” I point out the burnt-up spark plug to Ray, who nods, cluelessly.  “It’s totally fried.  Never going to work again.”  

 

It seems like he’s just as hopeless about cars as his 2016 counterpart; I hand him the torque wrench, and even though I’ve already walked him through this procedure three times, he manages to fuck it up anyway.  I’m very doubtful that he will ever attempt this again, in his lifetime, but it’s a good way to kill a couple of hours and try to talk to him about Laura.  

 

By the last one, he’s got the hang of it.  Sort of.  

 

The Chrysler sounds, well, not fantastic, but a whole hell of a lot better than before, when Ray starts it up.  

 

Ray suggests that we take it for a little test drive.  He’s in a good mood.  

 

“Want to catch a movie, or something?”  he asks. 

 

Why not?  

 

“Sure.”  

 

Ray goes back in the house, and comes out a few minutes later with a newspaper, which he tosses to me.  

 

It takes me a good solid minute to figure out what the newspaper is for; to look up movie times, of course.   _ Black Moon Rising _ is pretty much the only option that’s not a kid’s movie.  I’ve never heard of it.  

* * *

 

 

Three bucks for a ticket.  Good old 1986 does have its benefits, few and far between though they may be.  

 

As soon as we’re seated, I begin to suspect we’ve been followed.  

 

Laura and a girlfriend of hers from school are here, too.  They’re looking for somewhere to sit, and I see Laura glance our way, and then, I have an idea.  

 

“Ray,” I nudge him, “Move over a seat, okay?”  I waved to Laura and her friend.  Ray moved over, obligingly, though he looked at me strangely.  

 

Just as I’d thought she might, Laura settled herself into the empty seat between me and Ray, and her friend, Shannon, sat on the other side of Ray.  

 

At first, she tried in vain to keep a conversation going with me, but once we’re past the basic pleasantries, for the most part I ignore her.  She’s forced to talk to her friend instead, as we’re waiting for the movie to start.  And Ray, seated right between them, is not immune to the charms of sitting between two cute girls, chatting away.  

 

Shy as he is, he perks up a little bit and holds his own.  More or less.  

 

I deliberately take forever about getting the popcorn and drinks, and by the time I make it back, the movie has already started.  It’s a strange movie, about a weird-looking car that runs on water instead of hydrazine, and a subplot about a stolen, dinner-plate-sized floppy disk full of incriminating data.  No clichés, there.  

 

Laura’s not really paying attention to the movie, though.  Predictably, she keeps giving me the side-eye, and eventually, she leans over to me and whispers, “Mark?” 

 

“Yeah?”  I whisper back.  

 

“I never got a chance to ask you the other night.”  

 

Ugh.  “What?”  

 

“I was just curious.  Like, where do you live?  I’ve seen you at school, but nobody seems to-”  she trailed off, sounding embarrassed.  

 

It’s a dick move, I know, but I do it anyway, when I nudge a cup of soda to make it spill.  

 

“Shit,” I whisper.  I now have the perfect excuse to change seats, so I move down the aisle to sit on the other side of Shannon, instead.  

  
  


“Did you like the movie,” Ray asked Laura, shyly.  It’s now nearly eight, and I’m pledged to stay away from Doc’s place until midnight.  We’re standing in the movie theater lobby, and I’m trying to think of how to get Ray and Laura off by themselves.  

 

I’m kind of feeling those two, now.  Laura spent the second half of the movie pestering Ray instead of me.  There’s definitely a natural attraction there, and I’m kind of hanging back, being a good wingman, talking to Shannon.  

 

Finally, Laura suggests that we go for some ice cream.  That sounds vaguely date-like.  Cool.  I think she’s actually into him.  

 

This is going surprisingly well.  

 

I am absolutely stunned to see how quickly they seem to just fall right into acting like a couple.  

 

Maybe some things are just meant to be.  I can’t say that I’ve ever been a big believer in fate, but as I’m sitting here, watching Ray feed Laura a bite of his ice cream, and the two of them are laughing; and wow, he’s looking at her, really looking at her.  

 

This is good.  

 

Really good.

 

* * *

 

Oh, this is bad. 

 

This is very bad.  

 

One minute, Ray and Laura are well on their way.  And the next minute?  

 

Tiffany shows up.  


	14. Chapter 14

January 14, 1986

 

What is it with some girls?  

 

I swear, it’s like she didn’t want him, until she saw him with someone else.  Now, Ray is Tiffany’s personal cat-toy again.  

 

It’s irritating as fuck.  

 

Frankly, he seems kind of ashamed of himself.  It’s almost like he’s got Stockholm Syndrome, when it comes to Tiffany.  It’s really fucked up.  

 

Laura, for her part, is not much help here.  She’s been bullied by Tiffany all her life; she’s not going to deliberately antagonize her by chasing after Ray,  now .  

 

Why, why, why, couldn’t he have just gotten hit by that car?  

 

That might have come out sounding wrong.  

 

I’m not really sure how one goes about deliberately orchestrating a breakup, but in the interest of my future birth, I’m going to need to find out.  

 

Nothing’s ever easy.  

 

In other news, it seems that Doc has uncovered something interesting, down in Southern California.  Someone that he worked with, at the university, recently scored a contract position with the Jet Propulsion Laboratory, and reported that they are currently building a space probe that will be sent to Mars in a couple of years.  The propulsion system uses, you guessed it, hydrazine as its propellant!  

 

Good to know that someone, within 500 miles, knows how to make some.  

 

Doc’s colleague grew uncomfortable, however, with continued questioning about it, and that’s about as far as that went.  

 

But it's given me an idea.  

 

 

* * *

”What do you think?” I asked Ray.

 

 

“Man, I don't know,” he replied doubtfully.  “It sounds like a bad idea to me.”

 

“But do you think he could do it?”  

 

“Honestly, I have no idea,” he replied.  “But if anyone could, it'd be him.  Or one of the other Firewalkers.”  He trailed off, thinking.  

 

“Okay, then.”  

 

“Huh?” 

 

“Hypothetically speaking,” I say, “How would I go about asking him?”  

 

“Ask DayTripper of the Firewalkers to hack JPL for you!”  He looks like he's getting a headache, as he rubs his temples.  “God, I don't know.  One of the guys on Cafe Corner has their private BBS number, I think.  But you'd have to be crazy to think you could just waltz right in--”  

 

“Can you ask him for it?”

 

He stares at me.  

 

“This doesn't sound very hypothetical!”  He put his head in his hands.  

 

But he calls his friend.  Promises him that he won't say where he got the number.  Has to tell him that about half a dozen times, actually.  

 

The unnamed friend comes through, though.  

 

 

* * *

 

”What's your user name going to be?”  He taps enter to start the dialing sequence.  When it starts up with the shrill, noisy connection sound, he gets up and offers me the chair.  We switch places, as he perches on the end of the foot locker, looking really uncomfortable.  

 

Hell if I know.  I try to think for a minute.  It can't be anything that would identify me.  It has to fit in with the style of the times.  Most of the user names I've seen so far have been kind of whimsical.  

 

Then, i have an idea.  Yep, that'll work.  It feels like I'm on another planet, these days.  I'll claim to be interested in astronomy, or Sci-Fi or something, if anyone asks.  

 

“I really doubt this is the actual BBS,” said Ray, looking it over. “It’s very plain.  It’s probably some kind of shell that he set up to hide the real one.”

 

Sounds reasonable.  I guess.  

 

“I mean, there’s not even any door games.  And I know that DayTripper guy plays them, I’ve seen his high scores all over the place.”  

 

Telegard BBS Login 

 

Enter your login name or ‘NEW’ to signup.  

 

Main Menu 

A: Automessage

B: BBS Listings

C: Caller History 

F: Files

G: Goodbye

P: Page SysOp 

T: Timebank

U: User Details

?: Help

 

“I don’t know,” mumbled Ray.  “I guess you could try paging the SysOp and ask him to give you full access?  He’s not going to want to do it, if he doesn’t know you, though.”  

 

I set up a new account.

 

Enter desired login name:

 

TheMartian, I type.

 

Setting up the account doesn't take very long.  All the information they ask for is pretty standard, I guess.  User name, phone number.  Nothing to indicate that this BBS is anything other than what it appears.  But if Ray’s right, it’s actually the home base of someone who could really help me out.  

 

The system does some sort of call-back verification where the BBS disconnects and then redials, causing the modem to go into another round of that god-awful screeching and beeping.  

 

I'm verified.  Yay.

 

Go big, or go home?  

 

Might as well go big.  Or else I'm never going to get the chance to go home.  I type in  ‘P’  to page the SysOp and hope that I can bullshit my way in.  

 

...Paging SysOp...

 

. . . 

 

...Paging SysOp...

 

. . . 

 

SysOp has entered chat.

User has entered chat. 

 

SysOp: Hi.  What can I do for you. 

User: Hey.  Can I get real access?  Not this shell?  

 

SysOp: Do I know you.

User: Well, we go to school together. Close enough?

 

SysOp:  Uh-huh. Is this some kind of joke.

User: Nope. I’m looking for something kind of specific. They tell me that DayTripper might be able to track it down for me.  That’s you, right?

 

SysOp:  No comment. What is it that you’re looking for. Warez?

User: I need help getting some information from JPL’s database.  

 

There’s a really long pause.  Like, uncomfortably long.  If I didn’t know better, I’d think that the guy was consulting with someone else, deciding what to say.  

 

SysOp: Why?  

 

Well, he didn’t say no.  That’s something I guess.  

 

User: Because I want to know how to make some hydrazine.  I want the formula.  JPL uses it to power some of their stuff.  

 

There’s another long, uncomfortable pause.  

 

SysOp: Okay.  I’m not saying that I can do it, or that I would, even if I could.  

 

User: But?

 

SysOp: Let’s meet in person.  

 

Ray gets up and paces, casting a worried glance at the terminal.  Clearly this has escalated far too quickly, in his opinion. 

 

“I’ll make it somewhere public, okay?  He’s not going to gun me down in front of witnesses.  He’s probably just some nerdy kid that goes to school with you.  Us.  I mean.”  

 

Ray doesn’t say anything, he just gives me a dubious look, shaking his head.  

 

User: When and where?  

 

SysOp: Tomorrow. At three. The Automat on Main. Come alone.   

 

SysOp has left. 

You have been disconnected.  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	15. Chapter 15

It turns out that the Automat is  not  a carwash.  It’s a restaurant.  Who knew?  Maybe restaurant is not quite the right word, because it’s basically a room full of vending machines.  I take a look around; the place is mostly empty, except for then I spot a booth full of noisy kids my age.  Two girls and three guys.  I recognize a couple of the guys from school, though I don’t know their names.  I don’t think any of them look like they could possibly be DayTripper.  

 

Until one of them waves in my direction.  It’s one of the girls; the smaller, dark-haired one.   She has a sly, amused look on her face.  

 

“Well, come on,” she motions for me to sit down with them.  I take another look around the room, and quickly glance behind me.  Is she talking to me?  

 

I slide into the booth with them, next to the redheaded girl.  Really?  One of  these  guys is the notorious DayTripper?  They look like normal kids to me.  The guys are clean-cut; the dark-haired one sitting across from me was apparently in the middle of telling an amusing anecdote when I walked in.  Without missing a beat, he acknowledged me with a nod and a grin, and finished his story.  

 

“So the girl was sitting there, like, ‘I’m glad the guy kissed me, but I wish my  abuela  hadn’t slapped him.  And the programmer was sitting there like--” he leaned back in the booth with a satisfied smirk, “thinking, this is fucking awesome, man!  How often does a guy get the chance to kiss a pretty girl  and  bitchslap his project manager at the same time?”  

 

“Oh, God.”  The dark-haired girl groaned and rolled her eyes.  

 

“No more ‘alt.humor’ for you, man.”   

 

“Beth, would you  please  block Rick’s access to alt-bad-jokes,” the redhead said, smiling and shaking her head.  

 

“Yes ma’am.”  She smirked.  Then she got up, and walked across the shop to refill her mug, in a well-practiced, nonchalant sort of sequence that made it evident that she’s no amateur at the coffee refill.  She plops back into her seat, sipping her boiling hot, black, unsweetened coffee.  It’s hard to watch, actually.  Yuck.  

 

I’m beginning to wonder if they’ve forgotten I’m here, they’re so easy and casual-like.  It strikes me suddenly that I’m kind of envious of them.  Back home, I’d always kind of been a lone wolf type, until I met Mindy.  And since my feelings for her have never been those of pure friendship, well, I realize that I’ve never had a circle of friends like this.  They’re like a family.  

 

I take another look at all of them.  I still have no idea which one of them invited me here.  Maybe the guy that was telling the joke?  Rick.  I tried to make eye-contact with him, but he’s talking about sports now with the big guy to my left.  He has an accent on him, a thick one.  

Finally, the other dark-haired guy, sitting next to Rick, clears his throat and gestures towards me.  

 

“Hey.  I’m Chris.”  The rest of them quickly shift into introductions, too.  The redhead turns to me and gives me a sort of appraising look; I feel like I'm on a job interview.

 

“Melissa.”  She seems very no-nonsense and chill.  She's a little scary, actually.  Intense. 

 

“I'm Mark,” I manage to say, feeling intimidated as hell.  

 

“Oh my God, Melissa, quit freaking the guy out with that Iron Butterfly shit,” said Beth, shooting me a quick grin.  “I'm Beth, also known as DayTripper.” 

 

The fuck ?  

 

I'm trying not to act all surprised, but she's the last one out of this group that I would ever take for a computer wizard.  I guess my face betrayed me though, because the grin has been replaced by a smirk.  She owns it pretty hard, in all honesty.  The Chris guy gives her a kind of moony sideways look.  I hope I don’t ever look like that when I’m around Mindy.  Yikes. 

 

“The comedian here is Rick,” she rolled her eyes, “and over there’s-”  

 

“Alex,” said the big guy.  With his accent, it came out sounding like ‘Ollecks’.  

 

“Nice to meet you, Alex,” I replied, “Where you from?  Germany?”  

 

Alex gives me an odd look.  

 

“ West Germany, ja.”  

 

Well, at least I didn’t guess Austria.  Totally forgot about that reunification thing.  Whoops.  

 

“Exchange student,” he adds.  

 

“So.  Mark.”  Beth is looking at me again, with a more serious expression than before.  “What’s with the hydrazine?”  

 

The table fell quiet again.  

 

“Um.  Well…”  I trail off, trying to think how transparent I should be, here.  

 

“You’re not building a bomb or anything dumb, are you?”  She’s got one eyebrow raised, like she’s not totally sure whether she’s dealing with a complete idiot or an out-and-out terrorist.  

 

“No, nothing like that,” I tried to sound reassuring, “it’s for a science project, actually.”  

 

“You want rocket fuel for a science project?”  She looks reluctantly impressed.  “What kind of project?”  

 

Oh, geez,  I don’t know, the kind that’ll fuel up my time machine so that I can get back to 2016, after I help my parents hook up?  

 

“I want it to power a rocket,” I hedge.  “A small one.” 

 

“Cool!”  Alex’s voice boomed.  

 

“You design  rockets ?  Holy shit!”  Rick grinned at me like I was his new best friend.  “C’mon Melissa, can we keep him?”  

 

“Up to you guys,” she said, looking up at me, with the faint beginnings of a smile.  “Just don’t let him fuck up the database.  Dude knows nothing about computers.”  

 

“Hey, now,” I wanted to argue, I’ve got a fucking smartphone right here in my pocket that can compute geosynchronous orbits around any piece of shit from the 80s, but I can’t say that.  “I’m a fast learner,” I say instead.  

 

“Well, we  do  need an A,” said Chris, almost as though he were thinking out loud. 

 

What’s an A, anyway, and why do they need one?  I file that under Questions to Ask Dad.  

 

“Yes!” agreed Rick, “and Rocket Guy here is a born A, man!”  

 

“Ja,” nodded Alex.  

 

“I vote yes,” added Beth.  “But I’m reserving judgment on the hydrazine thing ‘til we know him better.”  She smirked at me.  

 

I guess I can live with that.  I wonder if I dare mention my  other  project.  

 

“Well, what do you say, Mark?  Want to be a Firewalker?”  Melissa smiled at me.  

 

What the hell.  Why not?  

 

“Sure.  I’ll be your A.  Sounds like fun.”  I try to sound confident.  No big deal, right?  Just joining up with a group of fucking BBS hackers that can maybe hook me up with some rocket fuel sometime.  It’s all good.  

 

“Awesome!”  Rick grinned.  “So tell us about yourself, man.”  

 

I clear my throat, awkwardly.  

 

“Um, what do you want to know?”

 

“How long you been online?”  Rick asked.  

 

“One day.”  I grin at them.  “Am I doing okay, so far?”  Well, one day of  their  kind of online.  

 

There’s incredulous-sounding laughter from Beth.  Chris snorts.  

 

“Where are you from?  You’re new in town, right?”  Melissa asked.  

 

Shit.  Should I say I’m from nearby?  faraway?  Mars?  Which one would be the least likely to give me away?  I think for a few seconds, until the pause becomes awkward.  Fuck it.  It’s not like they’re ever going to jump to the  correct  conclusion, here.  

 

“Not too far.  I’m just living with my uncle for the semester.  My parents are,” I paused, thinking.  “Out of the country,” I finished, lamely.  

 

“Got a girlfriend, back home?”  Chris asked.  

 

“Uh, yea.  Sort of.”  I smiled, sheepishly.  “How about you guys?”  

 

“I have a girlfriend;” volunteered Rick, “we’ve been together since freshman year.  These two,” he gestured to Alex and Chris, simultaneously, “are single.  I’m scared to ask Melissa about her personal life, frankly.”  Melissa rolled her eyes.  “And everyone knows that Beth’s got a crush on  someone .”  Rick raised his eyebrows at the oblivious Chris, “But she always keeps us guessing.”  Beth narrowed her eyes at Rick.   

 

Beth got up then, to refill her coffee.  Again.  Actually, after last night, some caffeine sounded like a great idea.  I hopped up and followed her to the drink machine.  

 

I couldn’t figure out where to put my quarters, though.  The only slot was way too small.  Seriously?  Does it only take dimes?  How lame.  I scrounged through my pockets.  

 

And then a dime didn’t fit, either.  

 

“Never been to an Automat?”  Beth looked at me, amused.  

 

“Actually, no.”  A fair assessment, considering that I’d never even heard of one before I walked into this place.  

 

“You get your tokens over there,” she oh-so-helpfully points to the kiosk by the front door, with a smirk.  “Where are you from?  Mars?”   The general implication being that I must originate from outer-BFE.  I smirk back at her and ignore her question.  

  
The kiosk yielded some small, gold-colored tokens.  What a nuisance.  No wonder places like this went out of business.  


	16. Chapter 16

January 17, 1986

 

So here I am.  It’s Friday night, and for the first time I can remember, and I’m sure this probably doesn’t even count because I haven’t been born yet, I was actually invited to a party at someone’s house.  And I even wanted to go.  In a non-ironic way.  Hardly the norm for my antisocial self.  Chris and Rick are talking about some political thing that I’ve never heard about.  Something about trading hostages for weapons in Iran.  

 

Back home, a regular Friday night would probably involve work.  Running errands for Doc, maybe working on my tropism project.  A better-than-average Friday night might involve having the night off from work, maybe watching something on Netflix.  A really outstanding Friday night would be one where I get to spend time with Mindy.  My…  what is she, now?  My girlfriend?  That might be overstating things, but I’m just going to go with it.  I like the sound of it.  

 

Every day that goes by, I miss her more.  I don’t even have a picture of her with me.  I have several of them on my phone, of course, which I left sitting on my bedside table back home, taking all damned day to charge.  Stupid phone.  I wish I could send Mindy a text, or a message or something, though.  Texting is a habit that dies hard, as it turns out.  Even if it’s only a second hand barely-functional piece of Android crap, I don’t think I’ve been without my phone for more than a few hours since I old enough to have one.   The last couple of weeks have been torturous.  At least a dozen times a day I automatically reach for my phone when I’m bored, or want to look something up.  

 

Cell phones do exist in 1986, as a matter of fact.  If you don’t mind spending three grand.  And if you’re not bothered by the fact that they only make phone calls.  Though the only person I’ve seen with one is Beth’s dad, who is some sort of businessman.  District something-or-other for a factory of some kind.  

 

Beth’s dad apparently thinks that his daughter is too nerdy to get up to anything too terrible; she gets a free pass to do whatever she likes.  And what she likes to do is to invite the other Firewalkers over to hang out on Friday night.  So here we are.  All of us except for Alex, who said he’d stop by after work.  

 

The Johanssens live in the tonier part of town, I guess.  Nice house.  We’re currently parked in the living room, watching MTV.  Cable is kind of a joke.  Only about thirty channels.  Terrible picture quality.  

 

It’s a different sort of dynamic than I’m used to.  Nobody’s tapping away on their phones.  Chris and Rick are obviously enjoying their political debate; Rick’s booming on about Nicaragua and guerillas fighting there, but wait, weren’t they talking about hostages in Iran or Lebanon or something?  I’m so confused.   

 

Melissa and Beth don’t contribute much to the conversation; they’re busy analyzing music videos and talking about computers, in between taking turns grilling me.   I’ve been looking for a chance to recruit the two of them to help me in my attempts to help Ray and Laura get together, but I’m not really sure how to bring it up.  

 

I’m not sure why, but every hour, on the hour, MTV plays footage from the space program.  Two astronauts bounding around on the moon, planting the flag, which has been humorously overshaded with the MTV logo.  

 

“Is that from Apollo 11?” I ask.  

 

Melissa nods, “I think so,” as the footage changes to show a more recent clip from a space shuttle launch.  “You an astronomy buff, Mark?”  

 

“Oh, well.  Sort of, I guess.  My girlfriend is.”  

 

That got their attention.  

 

“Does she want to be an astronaut someday?” Melissa grins at me.  “What’s her name?”  

 

“Mindy.  And I don’t know, I think she’s more interested in, you know, the kind of astronomy that involves a telescope.”

 

“Wait, your girlfriend is named  Mindy ?  You guys are  Mark  and  Mindy ?”  Beth laughs at me, incredulously.  

 

“We should call you  Mork ,” Melissa teases me.  “Now we know why you call yourself The Martian!”  

 

“Mark’s an alien?”  Chris asks, looking over at us, amused.  

 

I groan.  “Yes, yes, congratulations, you two, on your very original joke.  First time I’ve ever heard it.” I roll my eyes at them.  

 

“Is  that  why you want to build rockets, Mork?”  Rick is getting in on the fun, now.  “You getting lonely for Planet Ork?”

 

“Oh right,” chimes in Chris, “They don’t like smartasses on Ork, do they?  I guess they exiled  you , first thing?”  

 

“Yep,” I nod.  “Just need some rocket fuel.”  I grin at Beth.  Hint, hint.  “So I can fuel up my spaceship.  Get myself off of this rock!”  

 

“If only we knew someone who could hack JPL and get him the formula!”  Rick teased her.  

 

“Hey!  I’m working on it!”  She smirks at us.  

 

“Serious now, though,” Melissa said, “ Would you actually try to make some hydrazine, if you had the formula?”   The others turn to me, obviously this is a topic of great interest among them.  

 

“Well, yea, maybe.”  I hedge, “I’m not going to do anything stupid with it, though.  Nothing dangerous.”  

 

“Riiiiiight!”  laughs Beth.  “Like there’s so many  smart  and  safe  things you can do with rocket fuel!” 

 

“Do you even have any way of making it, if you have the formula,” Chris asks me, “can you just whip it up at home in your basement or something?”  

 

“Well, no, I’d use a lab.”  I roll my eyes.  

 

“You’d totally blow yourself up!”  Rick laughed.  

 

“I would not!”  I protest, grinning.  

 

“He totally would!”  Beth giggles.  “He’d probably mess up the math, just a  little  bit.  And then--”  

 

“BOOM!”  Rick and Chris chime in, laughing.  

 

“Shazbot?”  Melissa adds.  

 

“Very shazbot,” Beth agrees.  “We’d all be in deep shazbot.”  

 

 

* * *

 

 

Alex knocks on the door a little after ten.  

 

“How was work?”  Chris greeted him, and helped himself to a beer.  Alex brought a six-pack along.  Germans are awesome.  

 

“Was fine,” Alex replied.  

 

“Turns out that Mark here is an alien,” Rick grinned at Alex, “so I guess that means you’re not the only one!”  

 

Alex furrowed his brow for a minute, working out the translation, trying, and failing to get Rick’s joke.  He shrugged, and flung himself into a recliner, looking exhausted.  

 

Rick, having failed to get a reaction from his first attempt, doubled down and tried again.  

 

“Hey Alex,” he said, affecting his most smarmy expression, “What do you call a West German in the World Cup finals?”  

 

Uh-oh.  This was dangerous territory.  Perhaps I should mention that Alex and Rick are both rabid football fans.  And by football, of course, I mean soccer.  

 

“Don’t know.” grumbled Alex.  

 

“Ref!” 

 

Alex flicked his bottle cap at Rick’s head, in response.  Rick sent it right back; he nailed Alex between the eyes.  

 

“Goal!”  he grinned at Alex.  

 

This quickly devolves into Alex versus Rick, bottle caps flying, until inevitably one of them hit Melissa on the side of the head.  

 

She raises one eyebrow and gives them both a  look .  Mumbling something under her breath that sounded like “toddlers”, she turns to me and rolls her eyes.  

 

“Those two need a hobby,” I observed, dryly.  

 

“Feel free to suggest something,” she countered.  

 

“Well, I have a little project that could use some manpower.  Or womanpower.”  I grinned at her.  

  
“Yeah?”  She took a sip of her beer and looked at me, appraisingly.  “Tell us about it,” she prompted.  


	17. Chapter 17

January 18, 1986

 

Cerberus wakes me up, early in the morning, by licking my face.  

 

Gross. 

 

I head into the kitchen to get her some dog food.  It looks like Doc pulled a late night with his unseen lab assistant last night.  

 

Doc has been pretty awesome about this, all things considered.  Weird kid from the future shows up on his doorstep, with a crazy-ass tale about time machines and rocket fuel and plutonium, no problem.  Well, no  additional  problems, after he recovered from his initial freak-out.  He’s been very calm and matter-of-fact about everything, and he’s been basically willing to do just about anything to help me get home.  

 

I’m grateful.  It would be a whole lot harder on my own.  It’s cool, the way people have pitched in to help me, even if they don’t fully understand things; take me, for instance.  I still don’t even have a working theory about why Doc picked 1986, in the first place.  And that’s something that I’d really like to figure out, before I go back.  So that I can hopefully prevent this whole thing from happening again, ad infinitum.  

 

You’d think that after all this time, sharing a house with the guy, and paying as much attention as possible without  looking  like I’m paying as much attention as possible, that I’d at least have some ideas.  Be able to make an educated guess.  Something.  But no.  

 

Maybe it’ll hit me, at some point.  

 

And then, of course, my other project.  Getting my stupid parents together.  The other night, on the news, there was a story about two giant pandas at the National Zoo, and how difficult it has been for their keepers to “play matchmaker”.  I totally sympathize with those zookeepers, let me tell you.  The only two pandas in the whole country.  It’s not like they’ve got other options!   

 

Neither do Ray and Laura, after we’re done with them.  

* * *

 

 

The absolute psychotic nature of some of the arguments I’ve been having with myself lately, I swear.  

 

Sure, Mark, it’s totally cool to go ahead and and play dirty against someone in retaliation for things they’ll do in twenty years or so.  Not a dick move, not at all.  

 

Formula for rocket fuel?  Absolutely, it'll be okay to ask some kids my age to obtain it for me, illegally, because hey, if these guys wanted to build a bomb, they already have a copy of the Anarchist’s Cookbook and they could totally whip something very explosive up with ease.  Some of the stuff in there is way worse, after all.  

 

It’s a good thing that I’m not aware of any newborn future dictators, in the general vicinity, because I think my moral compass might be getting a little fuzzy these days.  

 

 

* * *

 

 

Beth’s parents are out of town this weekend, or maybe the entire week?  Who knows, they're hardly ever home.  They seem to have regarded Beth as an adult for years, and it's no big thing at all for them to leave her on her own.  They trust her not to get up to anything crazy, as long as she pulls down good grades.

 

I'm thinking that all that trust might be a little bit misplaced, because their daughter is, indeed, very smart, and pretty mature, but she's a little bit of a miscreant at heart.  

 

Also, Beth Johanssen has a fake ID.  

 

I’m using the word “fake” with hesitation, here.  Because on paper, at least, her alter-ego has a legitimate driver’s license, social security number, and credit history.  There’s a how-to guide on accomplishing this in the text files on the BBS.  I’m guessing that a lot of those methods would not work in good old 2016.  

 

The downside was that she had to sit through Driver’s Ed more than once.  But the end results are pretty impressive.  

 

She’s throwing a little party tonight, and inviting a few people from school.  Ray and Tiffany have scored an unexpected invitation.

 

I don't know that a party at the Johanssen's house is necessarily a hot ticket event, but it's a small town.  Unchaperoned parties with alcohol will always be popular, no matter who is the host.

 

 

* * *

 

At ten o'clock, Ray and I finally show up.  He's having car trouble.  (Gee, I wonder how that could have happened.)  He called me at Doc's to ask me if I might have time to come have a look at the Chrysler.  

 

I readily agreed to this,  and predictably, Tiffany did not feel like waiting, when there was a party to get to.  Ray agreed to meet her there.  

 

So when Ray walks through the Johanssen's front door, at precisely ten o’clock, it's a huge coincidence (not really) that Tiffany is seen, just then, to be leaving an upstairs bedroom, accompanied by Alex and Chris.  

 

Even though nothing happened, the guys are pleased to play it up like the three of them had been getting busy upstairs, much to Tiffany’s embarrassment and Ray’s disgust.  Ray turns on his heel and walks out, without comment.  

 

That leaves me on my own, with no ride home, but that's okay.  I stayed and hung around for awhile before starting the long walk back to Doc’s.  When I was crossing through the East side of town, which I noticed was mostly still under construction, I saw something that, despite having spent the better part of the weekend with my new friends, made me feel suddenly very alone.   

 

It was Mindy’s house.  Or it would be, someday.  Halfway built.  The framing was finished, looked like, but that was about it.  

 

I stood there, looking at it, for a long time.  Remembering.

 


	18. Chapter 18

January 31, 2017

“No new information.” 

That was the standard, canned response that Mindy got these days, when she called the case detective for an update. 

No new credible leads. No new interviews have been conducted. No new evidence at this time. She'd heard it too many times. She heard it in her dreams, even. 

Honestly, she wondered if they were doing anything at all, to find him. Do your job! she wanted to scream at the case detective. Find him. Do something. 

But nothing happened. After the first few weeks, an uneasy death march towards acceptance had started to creep in. 

It had been six weeks, now. 

She still called in, though. Every day. Just in case. 

She still looked for him. Everywhere she went. She took Rover on long walks, all around town, to clear her mind, and just to look. To feel like she was at least trying to help find him. Pointless, sure. She knew she wouldn't find him by running into him on the sidewalk. She wasn't going to pass him in the hall at school. But she couldn't help looking. 

The worst moment, so far, had come when she and Rover walked through the wooded area that stretched behind Mark's neighborhood. Rover had started pulling hard at the leash, snuffling excitedly. For a few horrible minutes, she'd been afraid that he was about to lead her to Mark's dead body. 

He'd lead her to the fallen tree, instead. The one that Mark liked to sit against and think. Where she'd found him that day. Where he'd finally copped to liking her. 

She'd taken to sitting there now, herself, when she wanted a quiet place to think.

They said he was probably a runaway, if he was still alive. The moody outburst at school, the day before he disappeared. The turbulent relationship with his parents. 

He wasn’t a runaway. Not Mark. Not after what had just happened between them, the night before he disappeared. Regardless of what the police might think,it simply wasn’t possible. It didn’t make sense. She’d have known. He’d have told her. He’d have offered to take her with him. He was her best friend. He wouldn’t have run away. It just wasn't his style. Not at all. She didn't believe it, not for a minute. 

He'd been happy, that night. 

And if he’d been murdered, by the same people that killed Doc... well, if that was the case, there wasn’t any forensic evidence to back it up. Her mind automatically steered away from that scenario, whenever possible. There was nothing to suggest that he was dead. 

Of course, there was also nothing to suggest that he was still alive. There wasn't anything to go on, at all, really.

The kidnapping scenario didn’t seem very likely, either. There had been no credible sightings of Mark since the morning he’d disappeared. And no ransom demands. 

And then, of course, there was that bizarre car chase, and nobody, not even the police officer that had personally witnessed the whole thing, had any idea what had happened with that. 

So many questions, she thought. No new information. Just questions and worry and wondering. 

Every day, she went to school. She did her work, and then she stopped by each of Mark’s classes and picked up his assignments, too, like he was just on some kind of sabbatical. It helped to keep things feeling a little more normal. Then she took them over to his house, after school. She hugged his parents. Cried with them, sometimes. They loved her, now. Her visits kept Mark alive for them, too. 

She took care of Rover. Doc hadn’t had any family, and her parents hadn’t minded very much. He was a good dog. He’d settled in, more or less. She could tell he still missed Doc. He’d whine, and pull at the leash, whenever they walked anywhere near where he’d lived or worked. If only dogs could talk, she thought to herself. Rover might well have been the only witness to whatever had happened that morning. 

It was the not knowing, she thought. Eventually it was going to break her; it would break anyone, everyone, given enough time. Eventually, those pitying looks that the teachers gave her; the matter-of-fact “no new information” from the detective; eventually, it was all going to reach critical mass. It would break her, and she'd start losing hope. 

Not yet, but someday. She didn't know what she'd do when that day came. For now, she stuck to her routine. Her new normal. Waiting. Wondering. Trying to stay hopeful.

Every few days, she watered the little potted plant of Mark’s, that she’d taken from his backyard. It had had her name, scrawled in pencil, in Mark’s god-awful handwriting, on the pot. She didn’t know why. Had he named a plant after her? Was it supposed to be a gift? 

Not like she could ask him. It was hers, now, though. It would be blooming soon, too, she thought. Maybe a couple more weeks. She'd consulted a plant identification volume of Mark's, and had tentatively identified it as some sort of azalea.

It was dark now, and it would be cold and windy tonight. Can’t leave it outside in the cold, she thought. It was silly, probably, but she opened the window to bring it inside, anyway. She liked to look at it. It was something tangible of his; proof that he'd really existed, and maybe, that he'd cared. She hoped that wherever Mark was, that he wasn't cold, tonight. 

She was pushing the window closed, when, for the first time, she noticed something. 

Something that hadn’t been there, the day before. Or had it? 

It was carved into the wood, about the size of the palm of her hand, there on the window ledge, just where she would normally rest the tripod for her telescope. It looked like it had been covered over with wood-filler, and several coats of paint, but it was still plainly visible, there in the moonlight, and she couldn’t believe she’d never noticed it before. 

She traced her fingertips over it, breath catching in her throat. It was a heart, carved inside of a five-pointed star. 

There was a perfectly logical explanation for this, of course. Some previous occupant of the house had carved it there, obviously. It had been there all along, no doubt. 

But whatever the logical explanation was, she really didn't give a shit. In her heart, she knew that it was meant for her.


	19. Chapter 19

January 25, 1986

"Uh-uh. I do not do disco." I say this very emphatically to Melissa.

"Oh come on. What do you have against disco? It's fun." She gestured to the couples out on the floor. "See?"

"Sorry. No Boogie Shoes for me." I plant my feet defiantly, shaking my head. No fucking way.

"You know Mark, if you don't know how, you can just say so. I can give you a lesson or two. I'm a good leader." She's says it like she's issuing me a challenge. It's a good strategy, really.

Ugh. I guess I've got nothing else to do until Laura shows up. And it's not like I can do much from the sidelines. I'll just have to grit my teeth and get out there with them.

"Fuck, whatever," I groan, "Let me go get some skates." Melissa brought hers with her. I had to restrain myself from an eyeroll when I saw them. White patent leather with pom poms on the toes. She takes this seventies obsession too far, am I right?

"Can you skate backwards?"

"In these things? I have no idea. I haven't been here since elementary school."

It's Saturday night in a small town. I guess it's not like they have anything better to do, in the 80s. It looks like half the kids from our high school are here tonight.

The skates are those ancient kind with the two clunky rows of wheels and the brakes in front. Nothing like the in-line skates I learned on. It takes me a couple of laps around the rink to get used to it. I try to ignore the horrible music as best as I can. But then, Boogie Shoes gives way to Superfreak. It's like my own personal version of hell.

Melissa's out in the middle of the rink showing off, doing what I guess is some kind of figure skating. Huh. There's a pattern painted into the wooden planks, and she's following it along, tracing it on one skate, turning and turning.

Superfreak fades out, and the lights go down. Time for a slow song, apparently. Endless Love, dear god. Watching all the kids break into couples, I head for the sidelines. Apparently Melissa is enough of a regular here that she's not short for admirers. A dark-haired guy grabs her around the waist, and she's actually batting her eyelashes at the guy. It's immediately a lot more evident to me why this is a popular weekend pastime for the local teens.

Hands are everywhere, and I mean everywhere, on the rink. This slow song is nothing more than a blatant excuse for a three minute long makeout session.

I spot Ray, lacing up his skates, so I make my way over to him.

"Hey Mark." He says it warily. This is evidently not his cup of tea, either. He's way outside his comfort zone, poor guy.

"Not into disco?" I scoff at the music, covering my ears and mugging at him.

"It's not that." He looks pained, "I'm missing Saturday Night Live for this."

"Oh geez, is that still on?" I say, without thinking.

"Yeah, it might get cancelled this year," he rolled his eyes. "That Robert Downey, Jr. guy has ruined the whole show."

Downey was on SNL? Really? How could they have fired Ironman? Just as I'm trying to get my head wrapped around that little factoid, I notice Laura on her way in, and I nudge Ray, who has done a fantastically terrible job tying his laces.

"Go say hi to her," I suggest.

"I don't know," he looks nauseated at the thought.

"She's not going to shut you down for saying hi to her. She likes you. Go talk to her."

This reasoning seemed to resonate for Ray, and he gets up and heads towards Laura. I hang back, not wanting to be a distraction. It's loud in here, so I can't really hear what he's saying to her.

Must have been good, though, because she looks up at him and smiles.

Good going, Ray, I think.

Melissa has managed to drag herself away from the Saturday Night Fever cast-off, and coasts in to sit next to me, winded.

"Looks like they're hitting it off," I say, gesturing to Laura and Ray, who are heading out towards the rink together. "Again."

Melissa nods. "Looks like he's doing okay there," she started, "But I'm kind of confused." She looks at me.

"What about?"

"Why do you care?" She looked at me, curious.

"Uh. Well, he's my friend? Just want to help the guy out." I don't want to look at her, she's too good at rooting out the truth. She obviously thinks she's on to something, here.

"You've only known him a couple of weeks," she continued on, eyes narrowed a little. "And it doesn't make any sense to me, why you'd be wanting to waste your time playing matchmaker. Laura's too young for you, is that it?"

"Well. Yeah, I guess. But I already-"

"And I'm about 99% sure that you made up that stuff about having a girlfriend back home, by the way," she made eye contact with me again, apparently looking for confirmation of her suspicions.

"I do, though," I argue helplessly.

"Uh huh," she says, "You've lived in or near this town, all your life. I can tell. You told me earlier that you hadn't been here since elementary school."

Whoops.

"And you've got a girlfriend. One that never calls or visits. Right."

I don't even know what to say. Honestly, I just want to tell her the truth. But I can't do that.

Can I?

"So okay, Mark. If you're telling the truth, prove it." She levels me with that challenging look again. "Here's a quarter, how about you just go call Mindy on the payphone over there." She gives me a satisfied look, knowing that I've just confirmed whatever she's thinking.

"I can't," I shake my head, sadly. I wish I could. If I could just tell her that I'm okay. God, I miss her so much. I wonder if she got my message.

Suddenly Melissa rounds on me, facing me. She's got a real future in interrogation techniques, I'm telling you. She's brutal. Because right now, I totally want to spill. Tell her everything. She could keep a secret. I know she could. And it would be so much easier if I had some help. Someone I could talk to.

"Mark," she starts, switching from bad cop to good cop, damn her, "You can tell me, whatever it is. I'm your friend. Maybe I can help. At the very least, you don't have to lie about it. Not with me. Did something happen?"

I can't even answer. She's just getting too close to knowing too much. It would be dangerous for her to know.

"Something happened to Mindy?" she pressed on.

"No." I mutter, finally. "She's fine."

"Something else, then?"

I can't help myself. I nod, just a little.

"I can't discuss it, Melissa. I know you mean well. But I can't talk about it. Please don't ask me about it again."

Melissa looks stunned.

"So you are from Hill Valley." She nods, when I don't argue. "Mindy does exist." She glances at Ray and Laura again, as though they're part of the puzzle she's putting together, in her mind.

"You grew up here," she repeats, again. "But it's like you're a stranger here. But you know things. Places. You…" she trails off. "Oh my God." Is she actually getting it? Her eyebrows are arched high in her face, the beginnings of panic starting to show.

"Mark," she continued, obviously struggling to stay calm, "I'm going to ask you something weird. Yes or no answer, please."

Shit. She's figured it out. I brace myself.

"Are you," she hesitated, trying to find the right words, "Do you look a different age than you actually are?"

Not the question I was bracing myself for, but it's close enough to the mark that I'm still pretty convinced she's realized I'm in the wrong time.

"Um. Yes. Can we please drop this now. Please. I don't want to-"

"You're some kind of… undercover cop or something, aren't you?"

"What?" What is she talking about? Then it hits me. She thinks I'm working for the police or something. To infiltrate the group. Get access. Evidence. A sting, to take down the Firewalkers, put them all behind bars. "No! I would never do that."

Fury is written all over her face. She doesn't believe me.

"Just what a narc would say." She stormed off.

I sat there, stunned, as I watched her call someone, Beth probably, on the payphone. Spoke a few words into the receiver, replaced it on the hook, and then glared at me.

I decided to try one more time.

"Melissa, no. Seriously. Stop. It's not what you're thinking."

"Mark? Is that even your name? Get the hell out of my way," she shoves past me, sitting down to yank off her skates and throw them into their bag.

"Please. Give me a chance to explain," I ask her, but she's gone, throwing a scornful parting gift over her shoulder.

"Mark the Narc," she called out, loud enough for people to hear.


	20. Chapter 20

**January 28, 1986**

I still can't believe Melissa just fucking left me there.

It's been a couple of days now, and the rest of the guys have totally frozen me out, too.

Chris and Alex just acted like they didn't even see me when we crossed paths, a few minutes ago in the hall.

And Beth. Jesus Christ on a pogo stick, Beth.

When I logged into the Firewalkers BBS on Saturday night to try to talk to her, I was less than thrilled to find my login information had been changed.

**System: Your new login is** **FuckingNarc** **, and your password has been changed to** **Asshole** **. Please write this information down in a safe place!**

**System: Your status has been changed to** **Eat Shit and Die** **level.**

Basically my new privileges include being able to log-in and log-out. That's it. Nice, huh?

Every attempt I've made at trying to talk to any of them has been completely ignored.

About the only good news I have, to report, is that Ray and Laura are almost, sort-of, marginally, in like with each other. It's been like pulling teeth, getting those two together, but I think it's finally starting to take. A couple more dates, and I'll be home free.

Once I'm sure, I'm free to get the hell back to my own time.

Well, desperate times call for desperate measures. And I still need their help. That Raschig Process formula is still the key to getting me home. And I've still got one card left to play.

* * *

"Melissa. Listen to me, just for a minute, okay?"

The bell hasn't rung yet, but we're both in our seats, in our first period physics class. Before, it would have been a pleasant couple of minutes to chat and catch up. But now, it's stony silence. She's listening, though. She's still really fucking pissed off, but she obviously does want to hear what I have to say.

"Fine, you want to know the truth?"

She turned to look at me.

"The truth is going to be really hard for you to hear. You might not believe me. And I need your promise that if I tell you, you'll keep it to yourself. Even if it sounds totally crazy."

She looked at me, nonplussed, but finally, she nodded.

"You're right," I started, "I did grow up here. I went to this school."

"I know that, already. How  _old_ are you, anyway?" She asks it disdainfully. Like the question kind of disgusts her, but she's morbidly curious.

"I haven't been born yet."

She rolled her eyes at me. "Right. Sure. Okay."

"I was born in 1999. I know, it sounds crazy."

"Yea, it does."

"I've been stuck here for nearly a month," I continue on, even as she makes the "loco en la cabeza" gesture with her hand. "There was an experiment, it was an accident. I don't think it's a good idea to tell you all the details. But I got stuck here in 1986. Thirty years in the past."

"Oh really."

"Yes. It'll make sense if you think about it, Melissa."

"Sure it does. A time traveler from, what… 2016? That's  _obviously_ what happened." She snickered. "Guy shows up on our BBS out of nowhere, wants to know how to blow stuff up? It was such a fucking obvious sting that I can't believe any of us fell for it."

"Oh God, this again? I already told you, I didn't. I would never have. I need to know how to make the hydrazine so that I can  _get back_ , damn it!"

The bell rings, and Mr. Davis shows up, with a TV on a rolling cart.

Melissa goes back to ignoring me.

"Good morning!" he greets us cheerily, wheeling the cart to the front of the classroom. "As some of you might already know, today we're going to be watching something really neat! Anyone know what?"

Nobody answered. Bueller?

He's arranging one of those old-school antennas on the TV, and finally, the local NBC affiliate flickered into view. There was something about this that was starting to make the hair on my arms stand up. Something, some long-forgotten fact. A half-remembered something. But I can't quite think what it is.

Mindy probably would have liked whatever this program is, though. It's a guy from NASA talking about the crew of the latest Space Shuttle mission. They're showing a previously-taped interview of them.

"Today will be the first time that a regular civilian will be going into space!" Mr. Davis continued. "A teacher. I wish it could have been me!" He laughed, jovially. "Later in the week, Mrs. McAuliffe will be teaching some science lessons direct from the Space Shuttle, and we'll be watching her perform some experiments in low-gravity. Cool, huh, guys?"

The class isn't too terribly interested in this earth-shattering development, but I guess it's more entertaining than our usual morning assignments.

They're showing footage of the countdown now, and more previously-taped footage of the astronauts boarding the shuttle, smiling and waving. Those faces look damned familiar, all of the sudden. My heart rate picks up. There's something wrong, very wrong, going on here.

Melissa is watching the screen intently, as the countdown reaches zero. I feel a rush of nausea, all of the sudden. Like I'm going to throw up. I glance around for a nearby trashcan, that's how quickly it comes over me.

"Liftoff! Of the 25th Space Shuttle mission!" said the commentator. "And it has cleared the tower!"

Oh, no.

No, no, no.

It's the fucking Challenger disaster. That thing's going to explode before it ever gets to space, taking the crew along with it. I jolt out of my chair and stand up. I can't watch this.

I just can't.

The class is applauding a little bit, as the shuttle hurtles toward the sky.

Oh my God, those poor bastards. I'm frozen to where I stand. This is just so fucked up.

"You okay?" Melissa inquired. "Mark? Are you sick?"

I sink to the floor, next to her desk. I can't catch my breath.

"It's going to explode," I whisper. "Seventy-three seconds in." She heard me, alright. Her eyes go wide, and she looks back to the screen.

"Velocity is two thousand, two hundred, fifty-seven feet per second, altitude 4.3 nautical miles, downrange distance 3 nautical miles," the commentator updated us.

By the time he's done saying it, I've got tears in my eyes. I can't help it.

One minute and thirteen seconds after takeoff, the shuttle disintegrates, the boosters flying away in random directions, and nothing but a big fireball and clouds of smoke left.

Several students screamed. I bolted to the corner trashcan and threw up, noisily, into it.

"Obviously, a major malfunction, here," the commentator ventured, obviously not knowing what else to say.

I really,  _really_ did not want to think about that  _other_ thing, right now. That horrible, unthinkable, thing that Mindy told me once. Stuff they'd found out about, way later. That the Challenger crew didn't actually  _die_ until they hit the water that day. That maybe they'd been knocked unconscious by the blast, nobody really knew all the details, but that at least some of them had survived long enough to know what was going on.

All the way down.

Several minutes, just watching that ocean get closer and closer. I can't even imagine.

Actually, I can.

I threw up again.

Mr. Davis was trying to calm the students, most of whom were staring, glued to the screen in horror, at the falling debris that was now starting to hit the water. He tapped me on the shoulder.

"Go to the nurse," he said, looking sympathetic. His eyes were full of tears.


	21. Chapter 21

I didn't go to the nurse. I left campus, instead, without much thought to where I was headed. Down the hall, out the front door, and headed towards downtown, before I even had time to think things through.

What the hell have I done?

Melissa won't have much choice other than to believe me, now.

I pass by the automat, now crowded with people, the TV tuned to the non-stop news coverage about the shuttle disaster.

Business seems to have ground to a halt, not surprisingly.

I need to think. The Automat seems a good a place for that as anywhere, and I already have a handful of automat tokens in my pocket.

The corner booth, where I'd first met the group that night, was empty, and facing away from the automat's only television screen, though I could still hear the reporters, endlessly speculating about what had gone wrong, re-playing the moment that the Challenger began to disintegrate.

I grabbed the first thing I saw from one of the machines, a plate with cheese and crackers and some sliced fruit, and I sat down in the booth. I took a notebook out of my backpack, intending to jot down some thoughts on what on Earth I was going to do, now.

I just outed myself as a time traveler; should I tell Doc? My first instinct was no. He already knows too much, and it just needlessly complicates things.

Will Melissa tell people? And would they believe her, if she did? It seems unlikely. Her word against mine And that's going to sound really loony, isn't it?  _Mark's a time traveler. He told me so!_

My gut reaction is that Melissa can be trusted, that all of them can be trusted, really. But it's a big secret for that many people to keep. It's got to be just Melissa, I think.

Or am I asking too much? Is anyone disciplined enough to keep a secret like this, for a lifetime?

Could I?

"Hey there, Mark. G'morning."

My head jerked up, to see my grandfather sitting down across from me, with his coffee.

I didn't know what to say; I nodded at him, as he looked over my shoulder at the newscast. He probably thinks I'm ditching school. Guess he'd be right.

Or not.

I notice, suddenly, that the sidewalk outside is crowded with kids. They must have let out early.

"Did you happen to see Laura, this morning?" he asked.

"No sir," I mumbled. "Not since this weekend." I hadn't spoken to Ray since then, but things had appeared to be going well enough.

"Ah. Hmm." He looked at me, curious, obviously wondering why my path had crossed with his daughter's, yet again. "How've you been, Mark?"

"Okay, I guess." I closed my notebook.

"You a little shaken up, son?" He gestured over his shoulder at the newscast.

"Yeah. I guess. I saw it live, this morning, in class." I shuddered, as he nodded, sympathetically.

"What do you think happened?" he mused.

 _O-rings._   _Launch fever._ But I can't say that.

"Who knows. It's a dangerous job, being an astronaut."

"That's true," he concedes. "I guess you're too young to remember the early days of the space program, but it  _was_  terrifying, at first. Every time they went to the moon, I think people halfway expected someone to get killed. They never did, of course."

"The Apollo Program," I mumbled.

"Yes," he smiled. "Exactly. That was something President Kennedy had really wanted, back before, well.." He trailed off. Grandpa had been a young man, my age, probably, when Kennedy had been assassinated. It seemed like ancient history to  _me._  But not to him.

"I suppose this will wind up being the Kennedy-level event for this generation," I mused. "An entire space shuttle gone, just like that. And the whole crew."

"I suppose you might be right, Mark," he said thoughtfully, clapping me on the shoulder as he rose and made his way to toss his Styrofoam coffee mug in the trash. "I need to get back to work," he said, giving me a farewell wave.

Just then, I spotted a familiar head of red hair, as Melissa ducked into the Automat and made her way over to the seat that my grandfather had just vacated. She looked shaken, but calm. She slid into the booth, her eyes darting across the room, where  _Challenger_  was exploding, again, this time in slow-motion.

"Guess we need to talk," I began.

* * *

"What the hell?" Melissa glanced down at my driver's license again. "What happened to it? Why is it all blurry like that?"

"God," I mutter, not sure how much it's safe to tell her, "It's because I've managed to fuck things up, for the future. Something I really,  _really_  need to get out of the habit of doing." We're currently on our second run-through of the events that led to me being stranded in 1986; I'm trying to answer her questions. And trust me, she has lots. It's been like proceeding through a minefield.

She was quiet for a moment, digesting this. Finally, she spoke up, to ask another one.

"Mark, in the future…" she paused for a moment as though she wanted to make sure she worded the question correctly, "Do we know each other? I mean, do you know what happens to me?"

"No. I mean," I stammer, not sure how to answer. "Not that I remember. And even if we did, you know, know each other in the future, I shouldn't tell you about it, anyway."

"So… I just have to wait until 2016? To find out what happens after we send you back?"

"I don't know," I shake my head, "Yeah, probably. You'll have to keep the secret for thirty years. That's a lot to ask, I know."

She was silent, thinking for a moment.

"I'll be forty-eight years old by then. What if-"

I cut her off. "You  _have_ to. Anything you do or say that changes anything... you'll just wind up in the same position that I am," I waved my driver's license at her again, to make my point. "Only  _you_  won't have any chance of fixing things. No, you  _have_  to keep it to yourself. No matter what."

She nodded. She leaned forward and pinched her chin, as was her habit when she was feeling stressed.

"I promise," she said again, meeting my gaze. "No matter what." She took a deep breath. "So. Game plan?"

I gathered my thoughts. I opened my notebook, scanning over some things I'd written.

"Well. There's two main things I need your help with. Beth has to get that formula. Somehow. Without getting caught. And without anyone knowing what it's for."

Melissa nodded. We'd already been over that part.

"Actually there's  _three_  things." I'd forgotten about Doc's 'unfulfilled wish' again.

"I can get Beth to get it for you," she vowed. "What are the other two things?"

"Um, Ray and Laura have to get married."

Her eyebrows went up.

"Say that again?"

"You heard me. They  _have_ to get married. If they don't, well…" I glanced down at my license again.

My name and address were still blurred to the point of being impossible to read, but the photo was clear. And printed right into the plastic of the license, unlike the layered ones they have in 1986, with a photograph sandwiched under a sheet of laminate.

She stared at it, blinking again. All things considered, she was taking this craziness very well.

"Okay. We'll get that formula from JPL, and your friend has to marry Laura Sharp." She shook her head, disbelievingly. "What else?"

"Well. The  _other_ thing. I don't know what it is, yet. But on the chance that I figure it out, I might need help with it."

"O-kay," she drew out the last syllable. "Well, that's delightfully vague."

"Yeah. Sorry. That's all I've got."

"Do you want me to try to help you figure it out?"

I thought about that for a moment. What could it hurt, really? And maybe a fresh perspective could help.

"Well, do you happen to know a scientist, here in town, by the name of Emmett Brown?"

"Doc?" she nodded. "Yes, I know him."

I stiffened in my seat, shocked.

_What the fuck!_

"You  _do_?" I stammered. "I mean, um, how… where do you, um."

She glanced back at me, puzzled.

"Doc Brown is Alex's boss," she replied, surprised, as though I should already know such an obvious thing. "They do chemistry work together. Doc gives him lab space to work on his project."

I sit silently for a minute, trying to get my head wrapped around this. How did I miss this? My new friend from Germany, Alex Vogel, was Doc's new… old, rather, lab assistant?

Does Doc know? Of course he must. Why hasn't he said anything, then?

The reason was pretty obvious, really.

"Hmm," I finally managed. "I hadn't realized. He's the one that built the time machine in the first place."

She nodded, thoughtfully. "That makes sense," she said. "So, the last thing has something to do with Doc, then?" she asked.

"Yeah. I have to figure out what motivated him to build the Delorean." Dawning comprehension was crossing Melissa's face. "He said it was an unfulfilled wish, as he was inputting 1986 into the time circuits. That's about all I've got to go on."

"What motivated him," she repeated, considering. "I don't know  _what_  motivates that guy, except science."

"He said something like, 'They say you never get a second chance,' and that was it. He never finished the sentence. Right after that, everything went crazy. And  _I_ wound up being the one sent back to 1986, instead."

"A second chance," she mused. "Only in 1986."

"Yeah. I'm stumped, too. And I need to figure it out, and fix it, if I can, or else this could wind up as some never-ending time loop, if he just randomly decides again that he wants his second chance in 1986. He'll just build another one and the same problems, or worse ones, will start all over again."

A few minutes passed, and finally she shrugged.

"No idea. Sorry, Mark."


	22. Chapter 22

**January 31, 1986**

In a few hours, it’ll be midnight.  And I’ll have been stuck here for an entire month.  

Things are looking up, though.  I think.  

Recruiting Melissa seems to have been a solid move, on my part.  She’s already got Beth deep into DayTripper mode, searching for the formula.  It feels like it’s almost within my grasp.  She’s smoothed things over with the rest of them, and things are mostly back to normal.  

People at school are starting to talk about Tiffany.  First, the rumor mill had it that she’d been caught banging two dudes at a party last weekend, and now it seems like she’s been coming to school smelling like rotten eggs.  Can’t say I’m able to summon up too much sympathy for her.  

(All right, all right.  I died laughing when I heard about it.)

Anyway, it’s Friday evening, once again, we’re hanging out at Beth’s house.  I’m getting ready to walk out the door, when I pass Doc, who was looking at a folded segment of today’s newspaper and shaking his head.  

“Not going to get my chance,” he muttered to himself, so softly that I could barely make out what he’d said.  “Damn.”  

I stop in my tracks, high top sneakers squeaking on the entry room tiles.  

What the ever-loving  _ fuck  _ is in that newspaper, making him say that?  I feel my heart pounding like crazy, as I turn and ever-so-casually walk back towards him. 

“Hey, um, Doc?”  I ask, trying to sound nonchalant.

Doc didn’t look up from the newspaper.  

“Hmm?”  he answered, absently.  

“Do ya mind if I have a look at that?  Um, when you’re done?”  

He looked at me curiously.  

“I’m already done,” he replied, passing it over to me, and glancing out the front window.  It was already dark.  I tucked it into my backpack.  

“Thanks,” I reply.  “Okay, well.  I’m going to be out for the evening.”  

“Any progress, with your, ah…  hacker friend?”  He ran his hands through his hair.  I guess it  _ has  _ been awhile since I gave him any kind of update. 

“Yeah.  I think so.”  

He looked up, one eyebrow raised, eyes wide.  

“That’s excellent!  Great news, kid!” he burst out.  

“Is your lab assistant planning on working tomorrow night?”  I asked.  “I know it’s Alex, by the way.”  

He looked nonplussed at that, and nodded.  “As far as I know,” he replied.  

“Do you think he’ll be able to help us?  Once we’ve got the formula?”  

“I’m counting on it, kid.” he replied, with a rare grin.  

It was starting to rain by the time I made it to Beth’s house.  Big, fat drops were just starting to fall, but thankfully, the newspaper in my backpack was still safe and dry when I checked on it, anxiously, as soon as I got inside.  

Chris and Rick were watching  _ Remote Control,  _ a weird sort of game show where the contestants sat in easy chairs (with seat belts, what the fuck!) and answered trivia questions, mostly pop-culture related.  

The current subject was “Dead or Canadian?” but I had never heard of at least half of the people they were mentioning.  And to further confuse matters, most of the people I  _ was  _ familiar with  _ were,  _ in fact, dead, as of 2016.  

Beth was working on something, with her headphones on.  Beatles music was blasting from her Sony cassette player, a Walkman, and for all intents and purposes, she was dead to the world.  Her face showed intense concentration, as she sat with her oversized Toshiba laptop, a recent gift from her dad, open in her lap.  The orange and black screen flickered, and the thing sounded like it had swallowed a wind tunnel, but she seemed pleased with it.  Other than a brief hello, and an apology for the little “misunderstanding” earlier in the week, she had been kind of checked-out since I arrived.  

As soon as I got a chance, I caught Melissa’s eye, and gestured to my backpack.  

The grandfather clock downstairs was just striking midnight, and the Apollo astronauts were once again bouncing around on the Moon on MTV (It seems that the powers that be, at MTV, had quickly yanked the footage of the shuttle launch) as we hurriedly excused ourselves for a brief pow-wow in Beth’s room.  

“This might be it!”  I gestured excitedly to the folded square of newsprint.  

She turned it over in her hands.  It was a sheet from the back page of the  _ Hill Valley Reporter _ , 

“Mark, there’s nothing  _ here _ ,” she said, shaking her head, as she looked it over.  “There’s a couple of advertisements, and a weather report, and half of an article about carpentry.”  

I felt my heart sink. 

“Let me see,” I reached for it, frowning, flipping it over to see everything.  God damn it all if she didn’t seem to be right.  “There’s an ad for carpet cleaning, and one for…  damn it!”  I felt like ripping it to shreds.  Instead, I threw the newspaper across the room.  “It’s fucking useless.”  

God, every time I get my hopes up.  Shit.  

Melissa sat back calmly, as she took in me and my temper tantrum, silently, with one eye raised.  

“Just keep thinking it over,” she said.  “Maybe we’re missing something, here.”   She retrieved the newspaper and looked it over again.  

Suddenly there was a loud whirring noise.  What the hell?  

BRRRRRRRRAP!  

I flinched, as the dot matrix printer in Beth’s bedroom came to life, auto-feeding the continuous paper from a box on the floor.  

BRRRRRRRRAP!  BRRRRRRRRAP!  BRRRRRRRRAP!  

Melissa grinned at me.  

“I take it the printers in 2016 are quieter?”  She got up to take a look, carefully folding back the page to see what Beth was printing out.  

“Can’t say I even use printers very often at all,” I grinned back.  It really was an awful noise, loud and shrill.   “But yeah, they’re quieter.”  

Beth flung open the door, with a big, satisfied grin on her face.

“Whoa.”  Melissa’s voice was quiet and hard to hear over the noisy printer, zinging back and forth, as she scanned over the half-printed document.   She gestured to it, and I walked over to look over her shoulder at it.  

The words  **Anhydrous Hydrazine** jump out at me from the middle of a long sequence of chemical formulas.  

Holy.  

Shit.  

“Doc!”  

I can’t deny that it’s somewhat amusing to be the one calling Doc in the middle of the night, for a change.  He was asleep, naturally.  Awesome.

“Yeah.”  He mumbled into the phone.

“Doc.  It’s me.  Mark.  I’ve got it.”  

“Yeah?”  

“The formula, Doc.  Are you awake?  I’ve got it, here in my hand!”  The excitement in my voice is impossible to control.  I’m practically jumping up and down.  

He was awake now.  

“You’re sure?  What process does it use.”  

I’m skimming over the printout again, just to make sure.  

“Yep.  Raschig process.  Says it right here.”  I confirmed.  

“Absolutely amazing!”  he yelled, “Amazing!  Good work, kid!  Bring it to the lab.  We’ll start setting up for tomorrow night!”  

This is fantastic.  I’m almost in tears as I thank Beth for her treacherous, devious ways, and thank Melissa for, well, everything, and I’m out the door.  

Unbelievable.  I’m going home.  

I’m going back.  

**February 1, 1986**

This stinks.  Worse than Doc’s workshop, even, which currently reeks of ammonia.

It’s going to take way longer than I had thought.  

At our current rate of progress, it will take us a whopping TWELVE DAYS to make enough hydrazine to get me home.   ~~~~


	23. Chapter 23

**February 5, 1986**

It's been rainy or storming every night for the past week or more, and I'm beginning to wonder if we need to be building an ark, instead of slowly producing hydrazine.

We've got nearly a half of a canister, now, ready and waiting in its lead-lined tank. It's not enough to get me home. Not yet.

But it's just a matter of time, at this point.

Alex has been over here a lot, most days he heads straight here after school, and we work til dinnertime.

His host family is somewhat high strung about allowing a high schooler to drink in their house, which of course is really not a big thing back in his native West Germany. But Doc is pretty zen about it. As he tends to be.

Turns out that Doc is actually German himself; his family immigrated here. Maybe that's why he took a liking to Alex. And since Doc is posing as my "uncle" these days, that makes me a honorary German myself, at least for the time being. Fine by me. Most evenings, after we're finished cleaning up the lab, Alex, Doc and I sit down and have a cold beer together and chill out for a little bit. It's nice.

We work well together, Alex and I, in the lab together. Doc supervises us very carefully, this stuff is highly explosive, after all, but we've got a certain rhythm now. We make a good team.

Alex doesn't know what it's going to be used for, of course, and if he has any worries that Doc and I are building a bomb or something, he hasn't let on. Melissa knows, of course.

Rick and Chris, poor guys, are still lumbering along under the delusion that we're going to launch some sort of experimental rocket together one of these days. I hate to break it to them. I don't know what Melissa will tell them, when I'm gone.

If I'm being totally honest with myself, there's a big part of me that's going to be sad to leave 1986 behind. And they're the reason why. They're the best group of friends I could have ever asked for. And we make such a great team.

They're not going to see me again for _thirty years_ , if ever.

And when they do? They'll all be my parent's age. Almost fifty. And even then, only Melissa will even know to be looking for me. We won't be friends anymore. If they even stay in touch with each other for all those years. They'll have thirty years of memories and shared experiences together. Without me.

I can't imagine how that would even work. A middle-aged lady, hanging out with a teenager? Not fucking likely. She'll send me a "glad you survived" email and that'll be the end of it. She'll nod at me, in the grocery store. There's that kid, she'll think, that I used to be friends with, way back when.

Why did it have to work out this way? I finally find the greatest group of friends, and now they're going to be taken away. They'll think I wandered off and left town; that I didn't care enough to even say goodbye. And they'll never know the truth.

This sucks.

I mean, sure, I'll have Mindy again. I've missed her so damned much!

But I want my new friends, too.

* * *

I hadn't heard from Ray in a while, since he hooked up with Laura. They're well on their way to being an established couple, it seems.

After the day of the _Challenger_ , I never wound up going back to school. It seemed like my job there was done. So I was surprised to get an email from Ray, today, asking me if I planned on going to the Cafe Corner picnic this weekend.

He confided that he was looking forward to taking Laura there, to introduce her to his BBS friends. Also, he mentioned that he'd been busy filling out college applications.

Now, see… all of this kind of freaks me out, because… Well, it's hard to substantiate, but this just doesn't seem like typical Ray Watney behavior.

And it also doesn't jive with everything I know about how Mom and Dad got together.

See, I never heard anything about any picnic. And if Dad had computer geek friends, I'm about 100% certain that he never introduced my mom to them. Ever.

As I recall, after the incident where Grandpa hit Dad with the car, they allegedly dated for awhile, and then eventually they agreed to go to a school dance together. And yes, there is indeed such an event taking place at the high school, in a week or so.

That's the earliest picture, in the family photo album at home, come to think of it. Mom and Dad at some dance together, senior year. Mom with spiky blonde mall hair and a big poofy dress, and Dad with goofy sideburns and a leisure suit.

Now that I think back on it, there's something else about this that bothers me.

In _my_ timeline, Dad never left home. To go to college or anywhere else.

I don't know. I get the feeling that I'm missing a big piece of the puzzle here.

On the other hand, they seem pretty solid, and Melissa will be keeping an eye on the two of them after I go back. It should be fine, right?

So out of my three main problems, two of them are looking pretty much solved.

That leaves Doc.

And I might have an idea of my own on how to solve that one.

* * *

_Dear Doc,_

_On the night that I go back in time, December 16, 2016, you will be attacked and murdered by members of the Chinese mafia._

_Ever since I wound up here, stuck in 1986, every day has been spent worrying about ensuring my survival, and trying not to mess things up for anyone, or get myself killed. I've had to stand by and watch as terrible things happen, because I know too much. It is not something that I want for you, or for anyone else. Ever._

_I can't lose you, too._

_Time travel might seem like a good idea, but please trust me. No unfulfilled wish is worth this._

_Don't build it._

_Your friend,_

_Mark_

* * *

I sign and date it, then fold and seal the letter into an envelope. I'll have to give it to him, last thing before I head back.


	24. Chapter 24

**February 14, 1986**

It's really almost over.

I can almost taste it.

And I mean that literally as well as figuratively, because the hydrazine production has made Doc's workshop smell so pervasively of ammonia, that as soon as you walk in here, you can actually _taste_ it, even if you keep your mouth shut.

I mean, I'm a plant nerd. I'm used to the smell of compost piles and have been known to use cow poop for fertilizer. It pales in comparison to _this_ stench.

It's my last night in 1986, so after the lab work is done, I get a shower (goodbye, ammonia smell!) and get dressed and in a little while, I plan to head over to the school, to say my goodbyes.

Doc loans me his Packard for the evening, which I've driven occasionally over the last six weeks. Took me a little while to get used to the clutch, but now I've got it down. It's a nice car, really. A classic. It's a light yellow convertible, with white leather seats. Was probably hella sporty, back in the 50s, and it still holds its own in the 80s. I'm finding myself in a good mood tonight, in spite of everything, so I fold down the canvas ragtop, and let a little atmosphere in. There's a bundle of eighties-fabulous clothes for the donation bin here, on the seat next to me. Not going to miss them.

I'm going to swing by the school, hang out for a little bit, and then be back here before midnight. The DeLorean should be all ready to go by then.

Van Halen is playing on the local radio station, a band that seems to sound great no matter what decade it happens to be. As I turn down Main, I have a last look at all the unique little Mom & Pop storefronts that will be gone in a few short years.

* * *

It's just after 9:00 when I make my way through the west entrance of the high school. I didn't realize this was a Valentine's Day thing, apparently I missed that memo, but other than a few half-hearted decorations (see what I did, there?) it just looks like the school cafeteria.

I spot Alex and make my way over and have a seat.

"Hallo," he greets me, with his trademark accent.

"Hey," I reply. "Good to be out of that workshop,"

He nods, and mutters something that sounds like "stinkend". I get the general idea, and we laugh about it.

"Is good we are done," he offers, "I need to finish my project for the Science Fair, soon."

"Oh yeah, the Briggs, what's it called, again? What's that for, anyway?"

"Briggs-Rauscher. Is part of the idea I have, for the future," he confides. He has to almost yell it, though, because it's getting pretty noisy in here. "To make stable the ah, the ah, how do you say." He thought about it for a minute. "Food for astronauts. Is first part of a chemical process that, I am thinking, will make astronaut food stay stable for long voyage in space."

"Seriously? That's really cool, Alex." Huh. I guess I've never given much thought as to what astronauts eat.

"Is almost ready now," he grins. Clearly, the guy loves his chemistry.

"Well, good luck. I think the judging panel will love it. They'll eat it up," I joke.

" _Danke_ ," he says, and then gets the joke, belatedly. He laughs.

Beth and Chris have arrived now, and they head towards us. I can't help but notice that Beth has made a modicum of effort to look like a girl, this evening. She's wearing makeup, anyway, and her hair looks shiny and different. Chris is an idiot if he doesn't realize why she went to the trouble.

Apparently, these things were still a lot more formal in 1986. A blonde guy approaches Beth and asks for a dance, as Chris gives him the side-eye. Beth nods, and the two of them head to the dance floor, where some ridiculous eighties girly-version of a Beatles song is blasting from the speakers. I've heard this singer, Tiffany, before, and I'm really not a fan.

One of the dubious benefits of getting most of your music exposure via MTV, is that you tend to memorize the artist, title, album, and year of release, without even intending to.

Maybe I'm not a fan because of the artist's name? I've always disliked the name, for obvious reasons. But no. Upon being forced to listen to a bubble-gum, bastardized remake of "I Think We're Alone Now" again, I can say with certainty that she just plain stinks.

Speaking of which, I'm detecting a slight sulphurous smell in the air; the reason that I've always disliked that name has entered the building.

Tiffany isn't paying any attention to me, though she does pause for a moment to throw a hateful look at Alex and Chris. She seems to be looking for someone; Ray, most likely. She looks pissed.

She finds him pretty quickly, on the other side of the room, talking with Laura. I suppose I'd better go see what's going on, there, so I make my way across the dance floor, and stand within listening range, trying not to draw any attention to myself.

It would seem that the secret's out about her house getting egged. I missed the beginning of the confrontation, but I definitely overhear the words "eggs" and "worms! everywhere!" while she's bitching him out.

Ray's laughing like crazy when he hears about the worms. He doesn't deny it, either, he just gives her a half-smirk and keeps on laughing.

Laura, though, stares her down, and says something snide to Tiffany, and then… uh-oh. She points at _me_.

Shit.

Ray looks at Laura, surprised.

That's the last of their conversation that I can hear, though, because Tiffany is now headed over to confront me.

And I really, seriously, don't know what the right thing to do is, here.

"You egged my _house_?!" It's noisy in here, and she's yelling at me to make herself heard over the music and noise. People turn and stare at us.

Confirm? Deny? I really don't want to screw things up. I'm trying to imagine to aftermath of both possible scenarios. It's hard to make a decision like this on the fly.

She has apparently decided to take my silence as an admission.

"You'll regret it," she scowls at me.

Whatever. I won't be here, I think. I shrug, and turn to leave. I see Melissa headed towards me, looking worried.

She grabs my arm and hauls me out to the hallway.

"What just happened in there?" she asks. "Are you still going…" She pauses, as though she still can't quite believe I'm making her ask such a ridiculous question, "back to the future, tonight?"

"I don't know," I reply. "Nothing, I think. I hope. And yes, it's tonight."

She blinks, staring at me intently. God only knows what's going on behind those eyes, but Melissa keeps it together better than anyone I've ever known. She can roll with the punches.

"Okay, then," she says. "Don't worry about Ray. I'll keep an eye on them, after you're gone." I nod my thanks. "You don't want to spend your last night in _here_ , do you?" She gestured back to the dance.

"Not really, no."

"Let's get out of here, then." She gave me a rare grin. "I'll go tell Beth, and the guys, that we're leav-"

The principal has stalked up behind me, while we were talking, and his hand has closed around my upper arm.

Are you fucking kidding me, I think. What an asshole.

"Well, it seems like _someone_ hasn't been coming to school lately." He seems to be enjoying himself immensely.

Just within my range of vision, I spot Tiffany, standing in the doorway, smirking triumphantly at me, gleefully certain that she's just ruined my evening.

"Is your guardian aware that you've missed the last ten days of school? Why don't we just give him a call, to let him know?" he sneered at me.

I grinned at Tiffany, and flipped her the bird. Power-tripped bitch. Her mouth falls open in shock.

So does the principal's, who totally saw my little gesture just now.

"My office. _NOW_!" He rounds on me, clearly intending to drag me down the hall.

I have other plans, thanks.

"Go fuck yourself," I suggested. I grinned at him, shrugging away from his grip, and began making my way in the opposite direction, not looking back.


	25. Chapter 25

As I'm headed to the Automat, I can't quite figure out what just happened. Have I managed to create some sort of weird paradox? Does the principal hate me on sight when he met me, because I remind him of my dad, or did I somehow remind him of… _myself_? Or maybe, did I somehow prevent my _dad_ from doing what I just did?

What the hell have I _done_? Jesus Christ.

It's making my head hurt, and I just can't think about it anymore right now. I guess there'll be plenty of time to analyze things when I get home and see just how much havoc I've managed to wreak.

My time here is almost up; I can hardly believe it's already time to say goodbye.

I guess I can't _really_ say goodbye, of course, because then they'd just ask questions. This is as much of a send-off as I'm going to get.

After tonight, it's over, anyway. In an hour or so, I'll be home, and it'll be like none of this ever happened.

Man, I'm going to miss these guys.

The five of us are here at the Automat, another place I'll never see again after tonight. The girls are on the other side of the restaurant, chatting while they get drinks. Maybe it's the fact that Rick's not here to make fun of him, or just his frustration getting the better of him, but Chris glances over at Beth and then back at me and Alex.

"I wonder if she'll _ever_ notice me," he sighs.

Alex shrugs; stating the obvious, without saying a word. Beth is weird. Who knows?

"Well…" I start, not quite sure what to say. Who am I, to give anyone advice on girls?

"Yeah?" Chris prods.

"I don't know," I say, "well, I'm probably not the best person to ask, but maybe you should just tell her you like her. Ask her out. See what she says."

Chris looks mortified at the thought. Finally, he shakes his head.

"Why not? Maybe she's just been waiting for you to say something," I suggested. Honestly, I think it might even be true.

"I don't know…" he hedged.

"Well, it worked for _me_ ," I grinned. "I thought I'd never get out of the friend-zone with Mindy."

Chris snorts.

"The _friend-zone_?" He grins. "Never have heard it put quite that way, before."

The girls made their way back over to the booth, and as usual, Beth chooses to sit next to Chris.

I raised my eyebrows at him. He was blushing, maybe at the idea that he'd almost been busted, talking about Beth.

Beth took a sip of her black coffee, steaming hot.

"Doesn't drinking that much caffeine keep you up all night?" Chris asked, curious.

"Well, yeah." Beth took another sip, smirking at him. "I _like_ being up late."

"You do?"

"Less morons to deal with," she quipped.

"Well, when you're finished refuelling," Chris joked, "do you want to go back to the dance?"

"What for?" Beth was slightly turned away from him, and there was a devious smirk on her face. I glanced at Melissa, who rolled her eyes at me, shaking her head in disbelief. Can you believe these two, she was clearly thinking.

"Well, um," Chris stammered, "I wanted to ask you for a dance, earlier, but I didn't get the chance." He was blushing again, but all things considered, he was pretty cool under the pressure. "What do you say?"

"I'm going to be awake either way," she chuckled. "Fine with me."

Chris paused for a second, looking like a deer in the headlights, stunned.

Told ya so, I'm thinking, when Alex speaks up.

"Where's Rick?" he asks.

"Still at the school," Melissa replied, looking at me, apologetically. "Said he'd catch up with us later."

"Girlfriend?" Beth asks, with a smirk.

Melissa nods.

"Yea, our boy isn't getting out of that cafeteria before midnight," she says, with a grin.

* * *

**Chris**

"Alright, you two have fun, I'm going to drop Melissa and Alex off," Mark called back at us, as Beth and I headed back towards the school, in the opposite direction. He has an odd expression, almost like he'd like to come with us, but it barely registers.

Because, I'm not quite sure how this happened, but after all this time, Beth Johanssen - the girl I've had a crush on for ages! - is actually walking _with me_. _On purpose_.

Nobody else; just the two of us! I can hardly believe my luck!

And I have to hand it to Mark; I never would have even asked her, if he hadn't given me that little push.

"You look really pretty tonight," I hear myself say, hoping that I'm not making a fool of myself, or building this up to be something it's not.

We were about to cross over Main when I said that, and then she stops and looks back up at me, and it almost makes my heart stop when she smiles. Not a smirk, but a smile, a real one, and it's almost blinding.

Actually, maybe that's headlights, come to think of it. There shouldn't be a car in the intersection, the light's red. And there's no time at all, as I grab Beth's wrist and yank her back onto the sidewalk, just as it whizzes by, with only inches to spare.

"Holy shit," she says, as we both turn to watch the car as it plows into oncoming traffic.

Oh my god.

The crash is so loud, and sudden, that it makes every hair on my arms stand on end, suddenly, and I can feel the force of the impact, right down to my bones, all the way across the intersection.

"Stay here," I tell Beth, as I race across the intersection to where the two smoking vehicles are crunched together, without even thinking about it.

I have to see if I can help.

"I'll call 911." she calls after me, darting back towards the Automat.

There's only two victims, from what I can see; the guy in the car that ran the red light looks like he's conscious and moving around. But the lady in the green Chrysler… she's laid out on the seat, sideways from where the other car T-boned her. Her leg's been mashed under the weight steering column.

I open the passenger side door, and yeah, she's definitely unconscious. There's a gash in her leg, below the knee, and it's pumping out blood.

"Oh boy," I mutter, trying to channel Dr. Westphall.

A tourniquet, that's what I need. I look around the car, and spot an employee badge, on a lanyard, hanging out of her purse, which seemed to have been launched against the passenger window.

Above the knee? Below? I pull her leg out from the squashed far side of the car, and raise it up, wedging it into the door to keep it steady.

I decide on below, and loop the lanyard around her leg, a few inches above where all the blood is rushing out.

As I tighten it up, the blood flow slows way down. Good. This lady has already lost a lot of blood, for sure, but that seemed to help a lot.

It probably hasn't been more than a minute since the crash, but already, other people have stopped their cars and gotten out, and I can hear, in the distance, the ambulance on its way from the west side of town.

Beth is on the other side of the wreckage now, looking into the car, her eyes wide.

"I called," she yells over, "They're on the way."

I nod, keeping the pressure steady, on the end of the tourniquet.

* * *

I'm still shaking a little bit, from the adrenaline rush, as we're walking towards the school again. My jacket has bloodstains on it, and the smell of blood and graphite and motor oil is still stinging the inside of my nose.

 _You probably saved that lady's life_ , the paramedic had told me. Probably saved her _life_.

Wow.

It's a good feeling.

"How'd you know what to do?" Beth asks me, finally, as we're walking back towards the school.

"I don't know," I hedged, not really sure. "I guess I watch a lot of St. Elsewhere. I just hope she'll be okay."

She grinned at that.

"You were amazing," she told me, sincerely. "Seriously, that was just.." she trailed off. She didn't finish her statement, she just grabbed my hand and smiled up at me. That smile, I swear. It makes me feel like I could slay dragons, or do any damned thing I put my mind to.

Be a doctor, even.

Wow. I could do that? I guess I could.

Maybe I will.

I'm holding the hand of the smartest, most beautiful BBS hacker ever; anything is possible, right?

* * *

**Mark**

"Look me up, in thirty years." Melissa says to me, as I drop her off.

"Just so that you'll know that I made it back?"

She looks at me strangely. I guess she's trying to imagine herself, circa 2016.

"Actually, come to think of it," she says, looking at me, quizzically, "maybe I'd better look _you_ up, in thirty years. I'm not sure where I'll be, by then. But I'm pretty sure it won't be here." She smiles. "I don't think I was cut out for life in a small town."

None of them are, when I stop to think about it.

"You make a good point. Okay," I grin at her. "Send me an email, or something. December 16, 2016." I scribble down my email on a scrap of notebook paper for her. "I'll want to know _everything_! I'm going to miss you guys. So you have to keep in touch with the rest of them, alright?"

"I won't leave any of them behind," Melissa promises me.

* * *

"You sure you don't want to know _anything_ about the future, Doc? Last chance!" I grin at him. Little does he know, I've stashed the letter I wrote in his lab coat pocket. No doubt he'll find it there tomorrow.

"No!" he assures me, shaking his head. "I wouldn't want to be in that position."

"Don't even want to know who the president is, in 2016?"

"Can't be any worse than having an _actor_ as president, right now." He rolls his eyes. Doc's not a fan of President Reagan. He _is_ kind of weird, I have to admit. "Okay, go on and tell me." He's grinning as he puts the last of the things that are going back with me into the space behind the seat.

"The president," I say, pausing for dramatic effect, "is Donald Trump. He just won the election a month ago, actually."

"Trump? You're kidding!" He looks at me, to make sure I'm not messing with him. His eyes are wide for a moment as he considers this. "Who's the first lady? Marla Maples?"

"I don't know who that is," I admit. "He's married to some supermodel."

"Now that… _that_ is some crazy stuff, Future Boy," he laughs. "Donald Trump," he scoffs, quietly, closing the hatch. "Lost their damned minds," he muttered, shaking his head.

It's time to go, so I shake his hand, and tell him, "Thank you. For everything." He nods, awkwardly, and steps back from the DeLorean, as I open the door.

He puts his hands in his pockets at that moment, and he takes a deep breath, presumably to say goodbye. Then his expression changes.

He looks at me accusingly, pulling the letter out of his lab coat pocket.

"What is _THIS_?!"


	26. Chapter 26

**February 15, 1986**

**Midnight**

"No! I can't be responsible-" Doc blustered, agitated, as he dug back into in his pockets for something. "No. It's not right. Nobody should know too much about their own future-"

"I'm not trying to-" And then it hits me; he's not even going to read it. Nope. "Doc, no. Don't-"

I watch, speechless, as he holds the corner of the envelope to a lighter, shaking his head, emphatically, as he walks a few paces in the other direction. He tosses it on the ground, as it burns.

Fuck!

Anger starts to get the better of me, as the scene replays in my mind again; Doc's body in a pool of blood, face all grey and lifeless. I can't be witness to that again. I just can't.

But I'm going to have to. He's made his choice.

He doesn't want to know.

He's within his rights, isn't he? Even if I don't agree with him.

An unaccustomed calmness washes over me, and I feel my anger melting away as quickly as it had fired up. Doc's right.

And now, I know what I have to do.

Taking a deep breath, I square my shoulders and walk away.

I think it might just be the hardest thing I've ever done.

* * *

Damnit.

Damnit.

Damnit.

Why does this shit always have to happen to me?

But there's nothing to be done.

I can see Doc through the glass, and I hold up my hand in farewell. Does he have any idea what he's asking of me?

He responds with a goodbye wave and an "okay" signal. He grins at me, as I put the DeLorean into reverse and pull away.

Respect his choice, I remind myself. I have to respect his choice.

He's probably even right, damn it. It's the responsible thing to do.

Desperate to think about something else, anything else, as I head towards the highway, I flip on the DeLorean's radio. Erasure is playing, as I put my foot on the gas pedal and start picking up speed. Time to go home.

"-waiting for the stars, to come showering down-"

I notice, suddenly, that the clouds have broken up, somewhat. The weather has cleared up. Maybe for the first time since I got to 1986, I can actually see stars, as I'm driving due north. There's a little light from the moon, but not much, it's just at first quarter.

"-from Moscow to Mars, universe falling down-"

I'm accelerating quickly now, when I first see it, low on the horizon. Not a star, or a planet. What is that thing?

What the hell is that? It's a goddamn comet! A big one, it has to be! It's bright, shining blue-white, tail spread out behind it. First one I've ever seen.

Halley's Comet.

Of course.

"That's what he wanted to see." I muttered to the empty car. Doc's unfulfilled wish.

It's beautiful, and so other worldly-looking; I can't seem to take my eyes off of it.

"-look real hard, there's a fiery star, hidden out there somewhere-"

Wow. Would you look at that, I thought.

Three flashes of light, and one sonic boom, and then Halley's Comet disappears from view, along with everything else.

* * *

**December 16, 2016**

I'm easing off the pedal. The car seems like it's handling differently now, but who cares?

It worked!

Fucking hell, it worked!

I'm back. I made it back.

I turn around and head back to Twin Pines. It's four in the morning, still pitch dark.

And oh my God, I don't know. I don't even want to know… what am I about to come back to?

I already know, unfortunately. But I guess I have to go see, anyway.

Slowing down to turn into the parking lot, I pass a sleepy-looking cop, who looks up at the DeLorean, startled.

He smiles and gives me a thumbs up. Apparently he's a car buff. He holds up a hand for me to stop for a moment, while he snaps a couple of pictures of it, with his cell phone, grinning. Then he thanks me, nodding.

I smile back, a little nervously, but hey, at least he's not inclined to pull me over this time.

Following the service road around the mall, I can see Doc's flatbed trailer, with something large on it, covered in canvas. It's not the DeLorean, though; it's not nearly large enough.

Doc's body. I don't want to look for it, but I force my eyes to scan along the ground, anyway.

It's not there.

I don't even… What the hell is going on here?

Jerking the keys out of the ignition, I cross over to the truck's cab and open the door, not sure what I'll find inside.

Rover bounds over at me, and behind him, on the bench, is Doc, grinning.

Not dead. He shrugs at me.

I'm hanging on to the door handle for dear life here.

"You're okay!" I blurt out.

"Course I am, kid!" He swings himself out and onto the pavement with Rover following in his wake.

I'm still standing here, shaking my head.

"How did…" I trailed off, trying to collect my thoughts.

"You recorded my murder," he grinned at me, pulling out a very battered iPhone and showing it to me.

"Oh, shit!" I blurted out. "I meant to bring that back with me." It's been beat to hell, but it still powers on, amazingly, after over thirty years.

"It's a good thing you forgot!" he laughs. Then his face went serious, as he met my eyes. "Thank you. You saved my life. That's what you wrote, in the letter I burned?"

I guess he's had thirty years to wonder about it. I nod, cautiously.

"What about all of that," I make air-quotes at him, "shouldn't know too much about your own future, thing?" I grinned at him.

"Well," he blustered, a little embarrassed. "You know, I never built the time machine with the intention of actually interacting with people in the past, you realize. The consequences of that could be, well…" he trailed off, giving me a meaningful look.

Just then, headlights flash across his face, and he turns away.

My heart is pounding, and my panic must have shown.

"Relax, kid," he said, pointing at the car. Mindy's car. Oh my god. Mindy. "It's not the guys with guns," he chuckled, shaking his head. "I never built it, remember?" he reminded me. "I completed the design, but I decided never to build it."

Then he pointed at the DeLorean. "See?"

It's just a DeLorean now, I notice belatedly. All the gear and equipment is gone. Vanished, apparently, when I traveled to a timeline where Doc had chosen never to build it.

Crazy.

Mindy gets out of her car and starts to walk towards us, carrying a notebook in one hand. Her blonde hair is tied back in a stubby ponytail, and she's reaching up to adjust her glasses on her nose. She looks up and sees me; she smiles.

Without even thinking about it, I run to her and grab her around the waist with both arms, holding her tight. Like, lifting her off the ground, neither of us can breathe, tight.

After a couple of seconds of shock, she relaxes enough to put her arms around my neck and hug back. She tilts her head back, looking up at me, quizzically.

"I missed you," I said, truthfully. "A lot."

"I can tell!" she grinned, as I belatedly lowered her feet back to the ground. "It's only been," she checked her watch, "twelve hours."

"It felt like months," I muttered, hugging her again. I can't help it. She's looking up at me, surprised. Maybe because...

Wait a second.

It occurs to me that I have absolutely no idea what the status between us is, in this new, altered timeline.

"Um, one minute," I held up my hand, as I backed away. "Don't move. I'll be right back," I promised.

* * *

Doc is pulling the canvas from a large, unfathomable device on the flatbed, when I come up behind him and tap him on the shoulder. He jumps, like someone just shocked him with nine thousand volts.

"Kid!" He shrieks like a little girl. It's funny, I have to stop and laugh for a minute, as he glares at me.

"Sorry," I gasp, still laughing, "But hey, Doc?"

"What?" He looks at me, and back across the lot towards Mindy, and then back at me. "Did I… hmm, overstep? By asking her here to witness the unveiling of my latest project?"

"No, no, it's fine. It's just…" I trailed off, embarrassed, "It's just that I don't know what's happened in this 2016. Is she still…" I look back over my shoulder at her, again. She's got her notebook out now, and there's something on the cover, is that… "Nevermind!" I call back to Doc, already halfway back to my girl.

Doc just rolls his eyes and turns back to his project, muttering something to himself.

* * *

"So where were we?" I joked, while Mindy looked at me, strangely.

"You were being weird?" she deadpanned.

"Yeah. Sorry about that," I grinned.

"I'm used to it," she sassed me.

"Yeah, sorry about that, too." I teased back.

It's funny, but even though I've never actually kissed her before, it's like there's some sort of odd, déjà vu, muscle-memory thing that kicks in, and it's like second nature as I pull her close and kiss her right then and there, before I even have time to think about it.


	27. Chapter 27

**December 17, 2016**

I'm back.

This is the happiest day of my life.

We spent a few hours looking at the new telescope that Doc spent the last few years building. But now the sun is up; it's early morning, and I should probably get home before my parents wake up and get the impression that I never came home last night.

Sleep sounds like a really good idea, now.

It occurs to me that I don't even have my house key with me. Where did I leave it, anyway? I have no idea, but I know there's a spare key on the back porch, underneath one of my clay pots.

Rounding the back of the house, I freeze, mid-step.

This is all wrong.

There's been a mistake.

Because instead of neat rows of potted plants in various stages of thigmotropism, the backyard is landscaped. Like something out of a magazine.

And there's a lady, sipping her coffee, on the back porch. She gets up and waves at me, like she's super happy to see me. She's got gardening gloves, and a trowel in front of her, on the table, but I'm sure I don't know who she is.

"Good morning, Mark!" she calls. "Did you come over to have a cup of coffee with me?" She smiles big at me, and points to the chair next to hers.

And I realize that I have seen her before. Getting into that Chrysler to go to work, that time.

It's my grandmother.

Shouldn't she be dead?!

How in the hell… I just don't have any words.

So I sit down, while my _grandmother_ chatters at me about gardening, and the weather, and some bulbs that she's not happy about.

This is really unexpected.

If this is where my grandmother (still) lives, then where do _I_ live?

My driver's license informs me that my address is now on the other side of town, in the neighborhood where Beth Johanssen's house was.

Congratulations are apparently overdue; my grandmother commends me for being so clever to take Early Decision for the University of Chicago, where, apparently, I was recently accepted.

This is news to me; it's hard to believe I would have ever applied somewhere _that_ outrageously expensive without a huge scholarship to back it up, but apparently I have and I did. A four year degree from U of C runs for a cool quarter-million dollars. It's my dream school.

"But who's going to do my yard work, while you're off freezing to death in Chicago?" she jokes.

I can't help but wonder what _else_ I've inadvertently changed. But so far, so good.

Nothing I can't live with.

Eventually I guess I start acting tired, and my grandmother offers to drive me home. She asks me why I'm not driving _my_ car; since when do I have a car? Another change that I can definitely deal with.

I mumble something about being up late, and she nods in understanding.

"Your dad was just like that, too, when he was your age" she laughed. "Always up all night, working on his computer! He was such a good boy, though. You know, he always packed my lunch for me? Every time I left to work the night shift at the hospital."

I did not know that.

She nodded.

On the drive, I couldn't help comparing everything; I'd gotten so used to seeing my hometown as it had looked, in the eighties. In the distance, I could see my high school, looking mostly unchanged.

"Oh! Isn't that your car, Mark?" We were at the corner of Main, and she gestured to the place where the Automat had once been.

Um. I guess she'd know, better than I would.

Okay, sure. I nod. Why not?

She pulled into a spot in front.

"Oh, well," she said, "another cup of coffee won't kill me." She chuckled, as I looked up at the building. The name catches my eye. Cafe Corner.

Good freaking Christ, what in the hell is this? A coffee shop with gaming rigs for rent?

And who owns this place?

The feeling of deja vu is really hard to ignore, as I follow my grandmother inside.

"Morning, sweetheart," my mother greets me, all cheery. "Forget something, last night?" she teases me. She disappears into the back for a moment, while I try to collect myself. This is just too fucking strange.

There's some sort of state license behind the counter, and yep, this place definitely belongs to my parents. It's some kind of franchised establishment, apparently. There's a display there by the register, talking about memberships and subscription services for twenty-odd locations of Cafe Corner.

My mother returns, holding something out to me. She looks different, too. Much easier to see the pretty teenaged Laura in her face now.

"You left this, last night," she smiled at me. "Your dad said it was beeping all night long. I think Mindy was trying to get in touch with you."

I take the phone from her, and sure enough, there's at least a half-dozen missed messages. I know they're from Mindy, when I see the little heart, inside of a star, that I carved into her windowsill that time, that serves as her profile picture on my phone.

"She's such a sweetheart," mom continues, as I try not to stare. "I hope you've invited her to Christmas dinner."

I finally find my voice.

"Um, yeah. I mean, I will. Sure."

* * *

It's nearly noon, and I'm completely exhausted, but before I can sleep, I've got to know what happened to the other Firewalkers.

When I log in, my email address is, thankfully, the same one that I gave Melissa last night, but a search through all the messages I've received in the last few months don't turn up anything. No users named Melissa, no email addresses with her old user name, Disk0, no matter how hard I look for it. Not in the main folder, not in the spam folder, there's just plain nothing. I've looked at every message there's ever been, and there's just nothing there.

Hard to believe she'd have forgotten to send it, but it _has_ been thirty years, so I guess maybe she did. Fine, I'll just look her up on Facebook, instead.

Except that she's not on there, either.

Then, I search through a database of people who graduated from my high school and she's not registered there, either.

What the fuck!

None of them are!

A horrible, dawning suspicion begins to grow, and I feel cold and nauseated and faint, all at once. My time-travelling has screwed something up, something major. I don't even have the first clue what. But they're gone. All of them. And there's jack-all that I can do about it, now.

It doesn't seem to matter what I try; nothing turns up. Nothing at all.

It's like they never existed.

* * *

THE END

>>>TO BE CONTINUED?>>>


End file.
